Sentiment
by rosetyler39
Summary: Sherlock always believed himself to be immune to sentiment. But with a newly widowered John and his newborn child now infiltrating Sherlock's life and conscience, it may be that the emotionless robot might not be so emotionless after all. LOTS OF JOHNLOCK.
1. Shed No Tears

CHAPTER 1

"I wish you could have had a chance to know your mummy," John whispered to the infant in his arms.

He gazed remorsefully at the black slab that stood before him.

_Mary Elizabeth Morstan Watson_

_December 12__th__, 1976 – January 3__rd__, 2015_

_Beloved wife, mother, and friend._

_R.I.P._

How he wished the headstone weren't so bland. A simple black, marble headstone with an epitaph such as what he read blended in too easily with the other meaningless headstones that dotted the rest of the cemetery. One could simply walk on by without even glancing at it. It even had a secluded spot that no man could ever find without proper direction. If any man were looking that hard, which John, fortunately, had been.

John heard the baby in his arms start to cry, and he slowly rocked her back and forth, shushing her with all the tenderness that a father should possess.

"Shhhhh. It's all right, love. Daddy's here."

John kissed the few silken hairs that lay atop the child's head, feeling the warmth beneath his lips, heaving a sigh as he remembered feeling the exact opposite feeling when he last kissed his wife's forehead as she lay on a cold hospital bed, deceased.

John noticed the abrupt silence from the bundle in his arms, and smiled a watery smile as he saw that she had fallen asleep.

He faced the grave again, pressing his lips into a thin line as he read the epitaph once more.

_Beloved wife, mother, and friend._

"Dull, isn't it?" a voice from behind him stated.

He closed his eyes tightly as he tried to block out the painful obviousness of the statement.

"I wish I could've come up with something a bit cleverer than what is written there, but I'm afraid my mind had all but imploded from the recent case I had been working on, therefore impeding my ability to request an accurate and touching epitaph to be engraved."

John took a deep breath.

"I just need a moment, Sherlock," the good doctor said in response to the inconveniently placed detective.

Sherlock strode up beside him.

"You could've."

John looked over at him, a grim expression on his face.

"Could've what?"

Sherlock returned the look.

"Chosen what was to be said on the headstone."

John looked away and shook his head, careful not to disturb the child resting peacefully in his arms.

"I couldn't. Not then. I just… I didn't want to."

"Why?" Sherlock asked with the utmost sincerity.

John chuckled half-heartedly.

"You really don't get it, do you?"

"I would like to. Do share."

John sighed.

"I didn't know what to say."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Please elaborate."

John swallowed a lump in his throat.

"Do you remember your grave, Sherlock?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded.

"Of course. How could I forget it?"

"Do you remember what it said?"

Sherlock pondered for a moment.

"'Sherlock Holmes.'"

"Was there anything else?"

Sherlock slowly shook his head 'no'.

"Do you know why?" John continued.

Again, Sherlock shook his head, more hesitantly this time 'round.

"There was so much to say. Too much, in fact, that a summary, I thought, was insulting."

"Is that your reasoning for choosing not to be a part of Mary's headstone arrangement?" Sherlock asked, quietly.

John nodded.

"Ah."

The two stood in silence for a while, staring at the boring slab, one mourning the body buried beneath it, the other attempting to process the extremely foreign concept of sentimentality.

_Sentiment. Boring._

According to John, sentiment was in fact not boring at all.

And Sherlock was willing to accept the fact.

Thunder boomed nearby, and John felt a plop of rain hit the tip of his nose.

"I suppose we ought to head home. I don't want Charlotte catching pneumonia," John said, sighing away the remnants of a restrained sob.

Sherlock quickly guided John out of the cemetery, his hand on the doctor's back, and with his free hand, hailed a cab. As he, John, and the baby settled in, the detective immediately ordered the cabbie:

"221B Baker Street."

John shot Sherlock a confused look.

"Sherlock-"

"I'm no expert in the field of comfort, but I do believe that spending a night alone in an empty house after heavily grieving is not the quintessence of consolation. You are obviously in need of company."

"I have Charlotte," John said, gesturing to the still-sleeping child.

Sherlock scoffed.

"I should hardly be expected to believe that a being with hardly-developed linguistic and ambulatory skills is company enough to relieve a grieving heart."

John straightened his shoulders a bit.

"That 'being' is my daughter, Sherlock!"

Sherlock waved his hand.

"But a being nonetheless."

John sighed an exasperated sigh as the cab drove off towards Baker Street.


	2. Distant Sighs

CHAPTER 2

As John stepped through the door, he was practically ambushed by Mrs. Hudson.

"Oh, John dear," she said, enveloping him in a hug, her bosom pushed up against the baby.

John was clueless as to how he was going to escape her embrace, as his arms were currently occupied.

"Mrs. Hudson… Charlotte…" he warned the woman.

She quickly drew back.

"Right. Sorry, dear," she said, wiping her eyes a bit. "How are you getting along?"

John sighed.

"Well, to tell you the truth, it's not easy visiting your wife's grave two weeks after her burial."

That had come out much more harshly than he had intended.

"Sorry," John said, looking down at the floor.

Mrs. Hudson smiled as she put a hand on John's shoulder.

"No trouble at all, dear. How about a nice cuppa?"

John nodded, causing Mrs. Hudson to smile.

"Good. Always cheers me up."

John cleared his throat as he excused himself and made his way up the stairs to Sherlock's flat, leaving landlady and detective looking up after him.

"Now, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson began, "I do hope you weren't rude."

Sherlock interlocked his fingers behind his back.

"I can never be sure, Mrs. Hudson. Human nature isn't exactly my field of study."

Mrs. Hudson gently whacked him on the shoulder.

"You should read up on it though. Might do you some good."

And with that, the two walked up the stairs to the flat.

John sat in his usual chair, Charlotte cradled against his chest, and Sherlock could barely hear John humming.

"John?" Sherlock asked, but was immediately hushed by a tap on the shoulder by Mrs. Hudson.

"Don't bother him, dear," she said in a whisper. "Just take a seat while I put the kettle on."

And she scurried into the kitchen, leaving Sherlock to awkwardly stand by, listening to the constant humming emanating from John's vocal chords. Without a word, he whipped off his coat and scarf and draped them carefully over a peg on the coatrack.

The humming continued.

He crept over to his chair and, as if worried he might cause something unpleasant, slowly and hesitantly lowered himself into it, all the while keeping a close eye on John.

He noted how John held Charlotte in his arms: Firmly but gently.

The sound John was making… a-

"Lullaby?" Sherlock said out loud, his fixed gaze never faltering.

John stopped mid-note.

"Mhm. Yeah," he said, still staring down at the child.

Sherlock nodded slightly, processing in his head the information he had been fed.

"'Hush Little Baby', am I wrong?"

"Hm?" John asked, hardly listening as he started rocking Charlotte back and forth.

"The lullaby, John. It's 'Hush Little Baby'?"

John nodded.

"Harry sang it to me when I was a kid."

Sherlock cocked his head.

"Harry?" he asked, surprised at the notion that an alcoholic such as Harry Watson could ever be capable of such tenderness.

John shrugged.

"No one else was around. Mum was six feet under and my dad was drunk most of every day. Someone had to mother me, I guess."

"Ah," Sherlock said, looking down at Charlotte.

Sentimentality seemed to be the recurring theme of the day.

Soon, Mrs. Hudson came shuffling into the room, a tray laden with floral teacups and a brass kettle in her hands.

"Here we are now," she said as she made her way over to the desk, grimacing when she saw the vast amount of papers strewn across the surface.

"Oh, Sherlock, the mess you've made," she said, clicking her tongue out of distaste. Balancing the tray on one hand, she managed to brush the many papers out of the way, accidentally sending some to the floor, and placed the tray down on the empty space.

"Sugar, dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked, glancing over at John.

John was back to his humming, his mind obviously distanced from reality.

"No sugar, Mrs. Hudson. If you recall, he's quite averse to the substance," Sherlock said.

Mrs. Hudson nodded and placed a tea bag in one of the cups, so that it was resting at the base, and she added the water to it, taking her time with the kettle. She, of course, didn't add any sugar.

"Here you are," she said with a smile as she handed the cup over to John.

John looked up at her with a look that begged the question of whether or not he should take the tea, seeing as his arms were rather full.

"It's all right, dear, I'll take her," Mrs. Hudson said, swiftly swapping the tea for Charlotte.

"There we go. Hello, darling," she said, peering at the child's round face, her smile widening. "She's got your nose, you know," she said again, looking up at John.

John chuckled half-heartedly, setting the tea down on the arm of the chair.

Mrs. Hudson sighed as she bounced the baby up and down in her arms.

Sherlock cleared his throat, causing Mrs. Hudson to raise an eyebrow as she craned her head to look at him and mouth the words, "Not your housekeeper" like she had done so many times before.

Sherlock sighed and pushed himself up from the chair, and walked over to the tea-tray to pour himself some tea.

"She sleeps like a rock," Mrs. Hudson remarked when Sherlock sat down again. "I wish my grandniece were the same way. Her name is Clementine, you see. Every time my niece brings her over, she leaves the little thing in my care while she goes out for a drink. Babysitting the child is quite the challenge let me tell you. Every time I would go to put her down to sleep, she'd wake up five minutes later, sobbing."

John pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.

"Mrs. Hudson…" Sherlock warned.

Mrs. Hudson nodded out of understanding.

"Well, since you'll be spending the night, I'll put Charlotte to bed. Good thing I have Clementine's crib downstairs, or you'd be in quite a mess. You know, that crib…"

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock hissed through gritted teeth.

"Right, dear, I'm out," she said, whisking both herself and Charlotte out of the room. When they were both gone and all was relatively quiet downstairs, Sherlock proceeded to steeple his hands under his nose and close his eyes.

"I miss her," John said, quite suddenly.

Sherlock's eyes shot open, his eyelids drooping a bit so as not to give away the fact that he was surprised by John's sudden decision to speak again. He assumed he meant Mary.

"As would be the case when enduring the loss of a loved one," Sherlock said, relaxing his posture.

"Don't do that," John said, obviously irritated.

"Do what, John?"

"Don't do what you usually do. Don't act like my situation is just another annoyance."

"I think it's hardly _your_ situation, John. Mary's the one whose name is engraved on a marble slab," Sherlock said, matter-of-factly.

John looked up, hurt in his eyes.

"Sorry," Sherlock said, looking down at the floor.

"Never-mind, Sherlock," John said. "Just… just do what you need to do and leave me be."

Sherlock was hit with the unfortunately familiar and unpleasant feeling of guilt. He wanted to say something, but couldn't find words, as he knew that saying anything further would only aggravate the situation. Silently, he rose from his chair with his tea and walked over to the desk where he opened his laptop and almost immediately started tapping away at the keys.


	3. Nightmare

CHAPTER 3

About an hour later, Sherlock heard snoring. Looking over his shoulder, he noticed a heavily sleeping John, his chin resting limply against his chest. He wasn't sure if he should smile, but despite the conflict in his brain, he smiled anyway. He loved how peaceful John looked when he slept; the way his eyes darted about beneath his eyelids, the way his chest rose and fell at a full and steady pace, the way his fingers curled as if preparing to play a tune on the piano.

Making sure not to make too much noise, Sherlock tiptoed over to John. He saw the teacup sitting, forgotten, on the arm of the chair. By the looks of it, John hadn't drunk any of it. Sherlock gently picked up the cup and placed it on the mantle of the fireplace. Looking at John again, he debated whether or not he should move the man. The angle at which John's head was resting foreshadowed intense neck pain in the morning, which was the last thing the grieving doctor needed, but at the same time, Sherlock didn't want to disturb John's much-needed slumber. He decided, though, that it was important to make John a bit more comfortable. He walked back over to John and gently tapped his shoulder.

"John?" he whispered.

The only response he got was a groan.

"John," Sherlock said again.

"Sherl…" John slurred, still half-asleep.

Sighing, Sherlock tucked one arm underneath John's knees and the other under his back and lifted the man up. He was shocked at how unexpectedly light the good doctor was, seeing as he seemingly maintained better eating rituals than Sherlock ever had. Sherlock merely counted this as a blessing. As he made his way over to John's old room, he heard mumblings coming from the doctor that were so nonsensical, he felt he should write them down in a journal of some sort.

When he was in front of John's door, he nudged it open with his foot and carried the doctor inside, gently laying him on the bed and tucking him under the covers. When he stood back, he marveled at the sleeping form in the bed as if it were a piece of artwork. Frankly, he was quite proud of himself for being able to perform the seemingly laborious task of carrying one to bed. As he began to walk out of the room, he heard John start tossing a bit in his sheets. Dreaming of course. But as soon as he opened the door, he heard John cry out,

"NO!"

Immediately, Sherlock ran over to him, firmly gripping his shoulders, familiar with these kinds of episodes.

"John, calm down," he said, firmly but calmly.

"No! God, no!" John cried out, a tear managing to slip through his tightly closed eyelids.

"John," Sherlock said, becoming a bit desperate.

John was most likely recounting the death of Mary. This was not a surprise, of course, seeing as Mary's passing was very recent.

"John…" Sherlock said again as John fought against his grip.

"SHERLOCK!" John cried out.

Sherlock knitted his brow in confusion.

"Sherlock," John said, reduced to whimpering.

Sherlock was saddened by John's vulnerability at this moment, whimpering and close to tears.

"God, Sherlock," John whimpered.

"John, it's all right. I'm right here," Sherlock said, brushing a stray hair out of John's face. "I'm right here."

Although John did stop thrashing about, his features were still scrunched up tightly.

"John," Sherlock said firmly. "I'm right here."

Sherlock was surprised when John's hand came up suddenly and started gripping his bicep tightly, his nails digging into the skin.

"Ah! John!" Sherlock cried in pain.

"Sherlock," John whimpered again.

After somehow managing to pry John's hand from his arm, Sherlock came round the other side of the bed and crawled in, wrapping an arm around John. He was practically clueless when it came to acts of compassion, but after being forced by John to watch crap telly numerous times in the past, he was able to learn a few things from those shows. Perhaps this wasn't the most appropriate for the current situation, but Sherlock was certain that this was better than nothing. He hugged John close to him, pressing his stomach up against the good doctor's back, feeling how erratic John's breathing had become.

"Shhhh," he cooed.

This… he'd never done _this _before. He'd never even felt the urge to. Never had Sherlock felt close enough to a human being to do _this_. With any other person, he would never have been compelled to comfort them in such a way, but somehow, with John, this felt right.

"I'm here," Sherlock said, squeezing John tightly. "I'm right here."

He was relieved when John's breathing finally slowed to a normal rate and was finally silent again, his nightmare obviously passed. And although his services were no longer needed, Sherlock stayed there, holding John tightly, afraid that if he let go, John would start to panic again. Sherlock's nose was positioned right above the top of John's head, allowing him to take in the scent of his hair.

_Recently showered. Not depressed, only mourning. Smells like… coconut? Huh._

Sherlock smiled inwardly at the thought of John using coconut shampoo.

He fingered the thick threads of John's white jumper.

_Stretched. Frayed. Obviously an old jumper. Perhaps a gift from someone? Yes. Patchwork knitting has obviously been done. Whoever gave him this jumper really means a lot… to… him…_

Sherlock then realized:

_I gave him this jumper._

Did he really mean that much to John?

_Obviously, seeing as the recent death of his wife has not been the incident to infiltrate his nightmares._

Of course he knew John was saddened by the death of Mary and would be mourning for quite some time, but he found it strange that he would be the subject of John's nightmares.

_Sentimentality is quite confusing._

Shaking his head slightly to clear his head of the thoughts that were buzzing around the inside of his mind at the speed of light, Sherlock nestled into the mattress and into the softness of John's jumper and allowed his eyes to close. Sleep wasn't his favorite activity, but if sleeping like this made John feel safe, then Sherlock was willing to sacrifice a bit of his time.


	4. A New Sensation

CHAPTER 4

John awoke to a sunlit room. London seemed to never get any sun, so this was indeed a pleasant surprise.

He yawned, feeling a slight weight on his chest when he did so. Looking down, he saw a hand resting on his chest. Craning his head, he saw Sherlock staring at him with jovial eyes.

"Good morning," Sherlock said, as if he it were just another normal day.

John raised an eyebrow at him.

"Um… morning?" he said, shifting himself into a sitting position, Sherlock sitting up as well. "Mind if I ask what you're doing in my bed?"

Sherlock placed his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands together.

"You were in need of company."

John stared at him, confused.

"There's a chair, _right _there," he said, nodding towards a wicker chair in the corner of the room.

"The situation demanded more drastic measures be taken," Sherlock said.

"Situation?" John asked.

As Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, there was a knock at the door down the stairs. Still raising an eyebrow, John crept out of bed and made his way over to the door to the flat, opening it for whomever was knocking.

"Hello, dear," Mrs. Hudson said when the door was opened. "I've got something for you."

She handed Charlotte, now awake, over to John.

John smiled as he took the infant.

"Hello, sweetheart," he said, smiling down at Charlotte.

"She was quiet as a mouse the whole night. Never once gave me a bit of trouble," Mrs. Hudson beamed.

Her smile softened into a relaxed expression.

"How are you faring, dear?" she asked.

John sighed as he bounced Charlotte up and down.

"I mean, all right, I guess. These next few months, though…" he swallowed. "…they're going to be very hard."

Mrs. Hudson put a hand on his shoulder.

"Well I'm here if you need me," she said with a reassuring smile.

Looking around the room, her eyebrows knitted.

"Where on earth has Sherlock run off to?'

John cleared his throat a bit.

"Ah… well…"

"Good morning, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said aloud as he strode visibly out of John's bedroom and down the stairs.

Thankfully, for John, Mrs. Hudson didn't seem to think anything of it.

"There you are. I thought you'd run off again."

Sherlock stretched his back.

"Where would I run off to? Every case Lestrade's offered to me lately I've been able to solve within ten minutes. Elementary, all of it," Sherlock moaned.

John looked over his shoulder at the detective.

"Did you just say…?"

"'Elementary'? Yes, John, as a matter of fact, I did. I thought I'd broaden my vocabulary to add a bit more flourish to my already eloquent manner of speaking. Do you like it?"

John rolled his eyes.

"You do what ever you want, Sherlock. God knows I can't do a thing about it."

Sherlock grinned smugly.

"I quite like the word. What say you, Mrs. Hudson?"

Mrs. Hudson shook her head.

"I haven't the mind for this sort of chatter this early in the day. You go on and say it if you like."

And Mrs. Hudson sauntered down the stairs, leaving John, Sherlock, and Charlotte in the sitting room of the flat.

"Well," John cleared his throat. "I ought to head on home. Charlotte's in need of a change of clothes. As am I."

Sherlock looked skeptically over at John.

John sighed.

"What is it, Sherlock?"

"What?" Sherlock said, snapping out of his skeptic state.

"You're giving me that look. Like you're trying to deduce me. What do you want to know so that I can just tell you instead of idly standing by for ten minutes while you stare at me?"

Sherlock waved his hand.

"Nothing. Nothing at all. I'm concerned for your well-being, is all."

"If you're talking about who I think you're talking about, I'm fine, Sherlock." John stopped. "I _will_ be fine, anyways. This is just… it all happened so suddenly, and I'll need time to adjust to this change in my life."

He smiled.

"Don't worry about me. I'll be fine."

As John turned for the door, he said over his shoulder:

"Hope you find a nice case."

And he left.

Sherlock sighed as he heard the door click shut. John _was_ always one to repress his feelings. It was only a matter of time until he'd break down completely. But Sherlock supposed that that would have to happen on its own.

Picking up his violin, Sherlock started plucking out a tune. It was, admittedly, a somewhat melancholy melody, but Sherlock thought it pleasant to his ears. Sometimes he wondered if his affliction with composing particularly depressing pieces spoke anything of his character. But he supposed, if that were to be the case, he wouldn't be too badly bothered by it. It would simply drive people away from him, thus keeping him safe from social situations. If doing this was what inflated his personal bubble, then by all means he'd keep on doing it for the rest of his life. It wasn't a bad life to live.

He was only at it for what seemed like a few minutes when he heard the door squeak open. Turning around he saw Mrs. Hudson.

"Ah. Good morning Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said, gently placing his violin its case. "Again."

Mrs. Hudson sighed.

"Oh, dear, you've done it again. Been in your brain palace or whatever you call it, I see. It's been at least four hours. "

Sherlock paused as he was closing his case.

"That long?"

Mrs. Hudson nodded.

"What's troubling you, dear?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"You know very well, Mrs. Hudson, that nothing ever troubles me. This," he said, pointing at his head, "Is impervious to all minor annoyances on the outside."

Mrs. Hudson put her hands on her hips and raised an eyebrow in disbelief.

"Come on, Sherlock. Even you have to admit that checking out for that long is abnormal behavior for you. Something's on your mind."

Sherlock heaved a sigh as he plopped himself down in his chair.

"Now then," Mrs. Hudson said, pulling up a wooden chair from the desk and sitting herself down in it, "Tell me what's on your mind."

Sherlock leaned forward in the chair and placed his forehead in his hands.

"I'm quite confused, Mrs. Hudson," he started, his voice never faltering.

Mrs. Hudson cocked her head.

"Now that's strange. About what, dear?"

Sherlock waved a hand.

"Human emotions and that sort of rubbish."

Mrs. Hudson let out a chuckle.

"Oh, Sherlock, how predictable."

Sherlock groaned.

"This isn't funny, Mrs. Hudson."

Mrs. Hudson bit her cheek.

"Sorry, dear."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"What emotions, dear?" Mrs. Hudson said after recovering from her fit of laughter.

"I…" Sherlock tousled his hair out of frustration. "Oh for God's sake. I'll just start from the very beginning. Last night John had fallen asleep in his chair. Of course, I was worried, and justifiably so, seeing as his neck was positioned in such a way that would inevitably pose spinal issues in the very near future if left unattended. The only rational conclusion was to move John to his bedroom."

Sherlock paused as he looked up at Mrs. Hudson, scanning her features for any signs of potential laughter. When he saw an absence of any sort of amusement, Sherlock continued.

"After a series of events that called for drastic… well… actions, that involved myself coming in close physical contact with John, I noted an increased rate in both my pulse and my breathing."

When he said this, he noticed a twinkle in Mrs. Hudson's eye that he'd seen only a certain number of times.

"I believe, Sherlock, that that's what you would call 'love'," the landlady said with a smile.

Sherlock sighed.

"That's what I was afraid of."

The landlady chuckled again, tickled by the grown man's distress.

"I'd tell him."

Sherlock looked up with a horrified expression.

"What?!"

Mrs. Hudson smiled, amused.

"When the time is right, of course."

"Why, Mrs. Hudson, would I tell him? And WHAT exactly would I say? I just recently learned of my new attraction."

"It's most certainly not new, Sherlock."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"What does that _mean_?!"

"It means, dear, that you've loved him for quite some time."

"Then why is my attraction just now surfacing?"

Mrs. Hudson sighed.

"I suppose it's just one of those things. You spend one night in bed together and then, suddenly, you know you're in love. Love is a crazy little thing."

"Indeed," Sherlock huffed.

Mrs. Hudson pouted at Sherlock's fidgeting form in the chair.

"Oh, dear, I know this is very scary for you."

"I'm not afraid, Mrs. Hudson, so much as I'm so dreadfully _confused_," Sherlock said, clasping his hands together once more. "After all, this affection is so sudden and… what would I say to John? We've been friends for so long and Mary just passed…"

Mrs. Hudson put her hand on his knee.

"Just tell him you love him. I know he loves you back."

Sherlock closed his eyes.

"How on earth would you know?"

"Just a hunch," Mrs. Hudson shrugged.

Sherlock sighed.

"The moment is all but appropriate. I… I must tell him when the time is right."

Mrs. Hudson nodded in encouragement.

"Exactly, dear."

The corners of Sherlock's lips turned upward into a slight smile.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

"I've hardly done anything, dear."

Sherlock grabbed her hand.

"Quite the contrary, Mrs. Hudson. London would fall without you in it."

Mrs. Hudson blushed at this statement.

"I do what I can."

She pushed herself up from the chair, Sherlock rising with her.

"I ought to head back downstairs. I've got cookies baking in the oven. Would you like some?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"I've never been one to consume sweets impulsively."

The landlady nodded in understanding.

"Suit yourself, dear."

As Mrs. Hudson walked out the door and down the stairs, she smiled as she heard a much different tune being played on the violin. One with a fast and light tempo.

"It's about time, too," she said to herself as she ascended the long staircase.


	5. Painful Reminders

CHAPTER 5

John crept inside the house, quietly shutting the door behind him.

_Why am I tiptoeing into an empty house?_

Sighing, John let the door click into place with a sound slam, not loud enough to frighten Charlotte of course. Or so he thought.

John heard a small sob come from the child in his arms.

"Sorry, love," he whispered, bouncing her up and down in his arms. "Shh, shh… it's fine. Just the door."

When Charlotte was finally convinced that no danger was present, she calmed down again, little bubbles of spittle forming at the corners of her pink lips.

John smiled at the sight of the infant in his arms.

"You're a cutie, you know that?" John said, playfully tickling Charlotte's belly, earning a gargled laugh from the tiny infant.

"Bet you're hungry, huh?" John said with a smile.

Charlotte gurgled in response.

Swiftly, John whisked Charlotte into the small 'kitchen' (which was, realistically, a sink, two counters, a microwave and a fridge) and whipped a bottle of milk out from the fridge while holding her in one arm.

To any stranger, it would seem that John had been a father for more than a few weeks.

Just as quickly, John had stuck the bottle in the microwave and whipped it back out, immediately placing the nipple in between Charlotte's lips.

"There you are," John smiled. "All better."

After Charlotte finished at least half of the milk, John placed the bottle to the side and burped her.

"You're like your dad," John laughed. "You just love to eat. Maybe you ought to try jam."

Charlotte looked back at him with wide, dazed eyes, obviously having no idea in the world what her father was saying.

"How about some telly, sweetheart?" John said.

Walking over to the small futon in the small living space, John eased himself and his bundle into the cushions.

"There we go," John said with a grunt.

Picking up the remote, John clicked the power button, BBC World News fading slowly onto the screen.

"…_and police are still puzzled by the trace that somehow wasn't left by an anonymous hacker, recent this past December…" _a blonde, middle-aged reporter said on the screen.

John's eyes widened as the camera focused on the younger brunette seated next to the woman.

"_Yes, Carol. On December 26__th__ of this past year, every television throughout London displayed the face of supposedly dead criminal, James Moriarty, repeating the eerie message, 'Did you miss me?'"_

John wanted to vomit as soon as a freeze frame of Moriarty's face was blown up to the size of the TV screen, the words 'Did you miss me?' unmistakably printed on the bottom of the screen. His grip on Charlotte became firmer.

"_If most recall, Mr. Moriarty was indeed found dead on the very rooftop that Sherlock Holmes had jumpe-"_

John immediately turned off the television. There was no way in hell he was going to listen to the story of the living hell he himself had lived through. The sudden jostle earned a very disapproving sound from Charlotte.

"Sorry," John mumbled.

John stared in disbelief at the black TV screen. Of course, he'd heard about the debacle from secondary sources (namely, Mycroft, Lestrade, etc.), but he hadn't really seen the actual image itself. It gave him chills just thinking about it now.

"Well this is fucking brilliant, huh, Charlie," John said, sighing in disbelief at the recent events that ruled over his psyche.

The rest of the day proved, pretty much, uneventful, which was a blessing to John. Sarah hadn't called him in to work in those few weeks after Mary died, so that was one less thing to worry about. Aside from a few diaper changes and feedings (which were still quite exotic happenings to John), John's day was, to put it into Sherlock's words, dull and boring.

And that's exactly how it stayed.

Sometimes John needed these days. Even if his mind was completely opposite from the overbearing calm of reality.


	6. Wine Stains

CHAPTER 6

About a month passed.

John had only visited a few times, and the scarcity of those visits really irked Sherlock.

But perhaps that was due to his quickly growing levels of impatience.

A month without a case and a month without John were two factors that were enough to practically drive the Consulting Detective to insanity.

He needed _something _to happen. _Anything._

That's why his heart leapt when his phone sounded through the room. He crossed his fingers, hoping desperately that it wasn't his phone company blabbering about the percentage of data he'd used up. He could hardly withhold his grin when he saw John's name on his screen, the message beneath it saying,

'_Mind coming over for a bit?'_

Without hesitation, Sherlock ran over to the coatrack and pulled on his coat and scarf, dashing out the door.

_Perhaps the time is now, _Sherlock thought as he signaled a cab.

_Don't doubt yourself. The time is now. It's perfect, in fact._

Sherlock looked out the window of the cab, getting incrementally more and more excited as he watched numerous buildings passed him by.

As soon as the cab stopped, Sherlock wasted no time in handing the cabbie a few notes and hopping out.

Brushing himself off, he looked up at the building complex before him, smiling as he made his way up to the door. He pressed the button with John's last name etched clearly on the small slip of white paper and waited eagerly for a response.

"_Sherlock?"_ was the first thing Sherlock heard a voice say.

"Yes, John, hello," Sherlock said into the speaker. "You texted me?"

"_Yeah, um, let me buzz you in," _John said, urgency in his tone.

Sherlock couldn't help but be slightly concerned at the hushed tone John was using when he spoke, so when the door unlocked, Sherlock hurriedly made his way inside and up the stairs to John's flat. When he knocked on the door and it creaked open, he stepped carefully inside.

"John, what's wrong?" Sherlock asked as he stepped through.

He rolled his eyes when he saw who was sitting on John's sitting room couch.

"Mycroft, what the hell are you doing here?" Sherlock asked as he sighed an exasperated sigh.

The corner of Mycroft's lips turned upward as he stood up with his signature umbrella, striding over to the younger Holmes.

"Well, you weren't answering my calls."

Sherlock gritted his teeth, as Mycroft's nose came not ten inches from where the tip of his own was residing.

"I don't answer phone calls, Mycroft. Especially yours. I don't like talking in such a manner."

"That much is obvious," Mycroft smirked.

John peeped through the space in between the Holmes brothers.

"Um, yeah, what are you doing here, Mycroft, now that you're finally talking?" John asked, annoyance obvious in his tone.

"Well, Dr. Watson, because of my little brother's reluctance to communicate with me, I was forced to connect with his closest companion. That happens to be you."

John rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, I gathered that much. Why do you need to talk to Sherlock?"

Mycroft turned to face the good doctor.

"I presume you are aware of the inappropriately named 'Moriarty Fiasco', correct?"

John nodded impatiently.

"Yeah, 'course I am. That's the whole reason Sherlock's even allowed to stay in the country. What about it?"

Mycroft backed up a bit so that his view could focus on the two friends.

"It seems my dear brother has forgotten about it."

Sherlock sighed.

"I would not forget such a dramatic event. There was a family crisis which impeded my ability to investigate the odd phenomenon."

"Brother dear, the Watsons are not your family, therefore, the crisis had no reason to interfere with your work," Mycroft sneered.

Sherlock growled like a rabid dog.

"John is my friend. I'd like to think that's synonymous with a blood relationship. Therefore, when his life was put on hold, so was mine. I share his distress when it becomes so personal it starts eating away at his psyche, because I don't enjoy watching him suffer. When he suffers, I suffer. And due to the death of his wife, we've both been suffering quite a bit. I would certainly call that a crisis."

Mycroft sighed.

"I've said it before, Sherlock, and I'll say it again: Caring is not an advantage."

Sherlock had had about enough of the elder Holmes and grabbed him by the shirt collar.

"It is to me!" he yelled in Mycroft's ear as he flung the man out the door, slamming it behind him.

A vast amount of knocking, unsurprisingly, followed the brief act of violence and a lot of:

"Sherlock Holmes, open this door!", "Mummy would be very cross with you if she saw the way you are behaving at this moment!", "The whole of London needs you, and you're going to let a doctor stop all matters of urgency?!"

Sherlock and John stood in silence as this persisted. Once it stopped and they heard angry sounding footsteps ascending the stairs to the lobby, they both let out a sigh.

"Well that was tedious," Sherlock said, accompanied with a grin.

John snickered.

"You think so? My God, if I had known the Queen was dropping by, I would've straightened up around here."

The two burst out into a fit of laughter like schoolchildren, reveling in the victory of booting out Mycroft Holmes.

"Shh, shh, all right. We'll wake Charlotte," John said, stifling another giggle.

Sherlock sighed.

"Oh, bother."

"Need a drink?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Don't you have work, or something?"

John shrugged.

"Sarah won't let me back at the hospital just yet. She insists I'm still grieving."

"Aren't you?"

John's shoulders went slack at this.

"I suppose I ought to be, huh? I mean, she was my wife."

Sherlock nodded.

"Indeed, she was."

John cleared his throat after an awkward moment of silence.

"I need a drink. I'll be right back."

Sherlock made himself comfortable on the futon, listening to the clinking of glass in the poor excuse for a kitchen that John used on a day-to-day basis.

_Do I tell him now? _He wondered. _How do I tell him? Should I? Maybe I shouldn't…_

"Sorry about that," John said, coming into the sitting room and seating himself in a small chair angled in the direction of the futon. "Nothing against you, Sherlock. Just want to look at you when I talk to you."

Sherlock nodded, grimacing at the full glass in John's hand.

"Is that…?"

"Wine? Yes, it is," John smiled. "Red wine, in fact. Tends to be my 'go-to' drink if I'm feeling really antsy. Numbs me, if you will."

With this, John took a long drink from his glass, smacking his lips when he had finished.

"Damn, this is good! You sure you don't want some?"

Sherlock stared long and hard at John.

He took a deep breath.

"John…" he started.

John stopped him.

"Before you start, Sherlock, I just… can I just say that that was really..." he took a moment to ponder what to say. "That really meant a lot to me. What you said to Mycroft, just then. I just… I want you to realize that our friendship means just as much to me as it apparently does you, and… well, I'm glad you care. I care. For God's sake, I cared about you the first day we met. It's validating to know that _you _give a shit." John chuckled. "You know, Sherlock; you are the best man I have ever met. You really are. And it's an honor to know you and be such a big part of your life. I really don't think you could possibly know how much you mean to me. Even if I tried putting it into words, my affection."

Sherlock smiled.

"I can try wording mine."

He inhaled deeply.

"I do believe I love you, John Watson."

John froze in his chair, as Sherlock did on the couch, only the sound of cars passing by outside making itself known to the two.

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably.

"I realize John that my timing wasn't impeccable. I admit that was rather rude to-"

Before Sherlock could say anything more, John had sprung out of his chair, wine glass shattering as it hit the floor, and clutched the back of Sherlock's head, leaning forward while simultaneously pulling Sherlock to him so that their lips met, pink interwoven in pink, the softness melding together as one. Sherlock's eyes grew wide, shocked at the sudden amount of force directed fully at his lips which were only ever used to articulate his speech, having had exercise shaping numerous o's and ah's and every other phonetic known to man. Now that his lips were doing this, well… well, nothing. It was as if they were used to kissing another human being's lips so passionately.

Was this passion? Sherlock could never be sure.

As the two men allowed air to pass between them to breathe, Sherlock began to question the events that were currently and, quite abruptly, occurring, but was only answered with a curt, "Shut up" from John. And they kissed again, Sherlock this time allowing it to happen, wrapping his arms around John's back and bringing his hand up to the nape of his neck, pulling the good doctor down onto the futon with him, whilst pulling him in closer, not wanting to lose the compactness of the moment.

John pulled away again.

"You know, Sherlock, we can't do much else. Charlotte's in the next room. And I'd rather she not be traumatized by the sound of two men shagging in the sitting room."

Sherlock nodded quickly, not wanting the moment to be over so soon.

"Obviously. But what's stopping us from simply kissing?"

John chuckled.

"Nothing at all."

And the two, once again, locked lips, this time, relishing the fact that they were doing so.

Love filled the foggy air of London that afternoon. It was not to be forgotten so soon.


	7. The Forgotten Void

CHAPTER 7

John woke up, vision blurry and head pounding. He looked down, realizing that his head was rested against the bare chest of Sherlock Holmes.

"Jesus Christ," he whispered to himself.

"Good morning, again, John," Sherlock said, smiling.

John looked Sherlock straight in the eye, feeling his heart hammering beneath his ribcage.

"Did we…?" John started to ask.

"Mhm."

"Okay," John said, resting his head back down. "We shut Charlotte's door, didn't we?"

He felt Sherlock's chin brush against the top of his head as the man nodded.

"Good." John smiled, snuggling into the warmth of Sherlock's body. "My God. I _shagged _Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock chuckled.

"And I shagged an army doctor. It would seem we both have exotic tastes."

The two burst out laughing.

"I'm in nothing but my knickers. Jesus Christ," John laughed in disbelief. "Oh my God. People are going to talk. And now they will have good reason."

"How on earth would people find out about our night together?"

John shrugged.

"Tension between us at crime scenes might give it away?"

Sherlock scoffed.

"Oh, hell. They do little else as it is."

The two sat in silence for a while, just listening to the birds and cars passing by outside.

"You think Mary'd be pissed?" John asked, the utmost sincerity in his voice.

Just then, the phone rang, causing John to nearly fall off the couch.

"Jesus Christ!" John cried out as Sherlock steadied him.

Sending Sherlock a silent thank you, John clambered off of the couch and over to the phone, swallowing as he picked it up.

"Hello?"

"_John, dear?"_

It was Mrs. Hudson.

John looked nervously over at Sherlock, who simply shrugged. John rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to the phone.

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson, hello. Can I help you?"

"_Oh yes, dear, I was wondering if Sherlock had stopped by last night? I haven't seen the man since yesterday afternoon, and I'm so dreadfully worried."_

John sighed.

"Uh, yeah. He's… erm… he's here."

He heard a sigh of relief come from the other end.

"_Oh thank goodness! Will you put him on?"_

John smiled.

"Sure."

Putting a hand over the speaker, he turned to Sherlock.

"It's for you."

Nodding, Sherlock hopped up from the futon and grabbed John's phone, putting it to his ear.

"Hello, Mrs. Hudson," he said, quite jovially, watching as John wandered into the kitchen.

"_I take it things went well last night?" _Mrs. Hudson giggled on the other end.

Sherlock laughed.

"More or less."

He heard Mrs. Hudson cackle on the other end.

"_My word, Sherlock! Oh this is absolutely wonderful! My boys are finally as they should be!"_

Sherlock hurriedly hushed her as John came back into the room.

"Yes, thank you, Mrs. Hudson. Goodbye now."

And he quickly hung up.

John had laid a cup of coffee down on the end table and was putting his trousers on when he chimed in:

"She knows, doesn't she?"

Sherlock cleared his throat, nervously.

"I've no idea _what _you're talking about John."

"Yes you do. You told her you shagged me. I heard you."

Sherlock's face turned a deep shade of red.

"Inexplicitly…"

"Yeah, well…" John stood up and walked over to Sherlock, pecking the detective on the cheek. "…at least you're the one who told her."

Sherlock returned the kiss with one on the lips, chuckling.

Without warning, John pushed Sherlock away.

"What is it? Have I done something wrong?" Sherlock asked, confused.

John shook his head.

"No, no, it's… it's not you. It's just… It's only been a month since Mary died. One month, and I'm already making love to someone else. Sherlock…" John's expression became serious. "Does… that make me a bad person?"

Sherlock stared sympathetically at John.

"My ideals of what a 'good' and 'bad' person are are very much skewed, John. Moriarty is definitely what I, and many others, would call a bad person. A very bad person. You, in my opinion, John Watson, are not a good nor a bad person. That's what is so fascinating and puzzling about you. You fight for what's right, which I would say makes you 'good', but the way you do it might classify you as 'bad', therefore putting you in that space in between…"

Sherlock noticed that John was frowning.

"Not the answer you were looking for?"

John sighed.

"A simple 'yes' or 'no' would have sufficed."

"What I'm trying to say, John, is that doesn't matter. What matters is what your intentions are. And your intention in this particular situation is to find happiness once again. Personally, I don't believe that makes you a bad person. And do you know what? I don't think Mary would think that it does either. In fact, I think that she'd be proud of how quickly you've learned to move on."

John looked up at the detective with shining eyes.

"You really think so?"

Sherlock smiled and pulled John into a tight embrace.

"I know so." 

After standing like that for a while, Sherlock peered down at John again.

"I think it's time you move back into the flat."

John looked up, a puzzled expression on his face.

"With Charlotte?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Mrs. Hudson has the crib in her flat, which would solve the issue of finding a babysitter while you and I solve crimes, and a trusted one at that."

John smirked at the thought.

"She can't babysit Charlotte all the time, Sherlock."

Sherlock sighed.

"Yes, of course, but when we need her to, she can. Oh John, it will be perfect. You and I, living as partners in a flat together!" Sherlock grinned.

He cleared his throat.

"That is, if you want to be partners. In a more amorous way, I mean."

John laughed.

"Of course, you idiot."

Sherlock smiled.

"Really?"

"Who wouldn't?" John shrugged. "You're the great Sherlock Holmes."


	8. Here for You

CHAPTER 8

It didn't take long before boxes full of all of John's things were strewn about the flat at 221B Baker Street.

Both Sherlock and John had negated against the idea of John bringing any more furniture into the flat. It took much arguing, however, before Sherlock finally agreed to have Charlotte's crib and high chair moved in. But that was the whole of the new furniture. And a both objects were quite necessary to properly care for an infant girl.

It only took about a week for John to unpack his things and move them into their proper places in the flat. And of course, it was a novelty to move his pajamas and toiletries into Sherlock's bedroom.

After he had settled, finally, Mrs. Hudson came upstairs with sandwiches and tea, as a sort of welcome home present. Three occupants of 221B laughed late into the afternoon, the fourth being bounced on another's knee, seeing as any linguistics were far beyond her.

John couldn't stop smiling. Never in his life had he been so happy. And although he was missing his late wife, the pain was no longer as the void that Mary had left those many weeks ago had now been filled.

Everything was perfect.

At around seven o'clock, Mrs. Hudson resigned herself to the downstairs, excusing herself for the night and dropping motherly kisses on each man's head and on the lone child's. John sat with Charlotte in his arms, slowly rocking her back and forth and humming the same lullaby Sherlock had heard him sing before.

"Again with that, John?" Sherlock asked, somewhat amused.

John stopped and chuckled.

"Shut up. I like it," he said, not meaning the seemingly harsh words. "Charlotte likes it. Speaking of which, I ought to get this little one up to bed."

John was gone for a brief moment as he put Charlotte to bed in what used to be his room. Soon he came back into the sitting room.

"There. And now…" John said, curling up on the couch next to Sherlock and stroking his chest. "We're alone."

Sherlock put his hand on John's and stopped its gentle stroking motion.

"John," he said, his voice serious.

John looked up, extremely concerned.

"What's wrong, Sherlock? You okay?"

Sherlock sighed.

"I'm concerned about Charlotte."

John straightened a bit, staring Sherlock intently in the eye.

"What do you mean?"

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"I… John, you know I have a deep amount of affection for you?"

John laughed a bit.

"You mean you love me? Yeah, 'course I do."

Sherlock cleared his throat.

"Then you realize that if I want to continue harboring that affection into old age, many responsibilities will come with it."

John raised an eyebrow.

"What are you getting at, Sherlock?"

Sherlock bit his lip.

"I'm afraid that… I'm afraid that I won't be able to properly care for Charlotte."

John smiled warmly.

"You mean you're scared of being a father?"

Sherlock nodded.

"In a way, yes. Although I don't suppose that's what I am."

John sat up on the couch and turned Sherlock's head to him.

"You are as long as you're a part of both her and my life." John paused. "Sherlock, there's no reason to be afraid. I'm here to help you."

Sherlock sighed in frustration.

"Will that be enough, though?"

John shrugged.

"You're the genius. You tell me."

Sherlock put his head in his hands.

"One week and I'm already feeling regret. I mean, John, how can I go dashing around London solving crimes when we've got a one month-old child in our flat?"

John smiled.

"As you said before, we've got Mrs. Hudson."

Sherlock shook his head.

"But what of my presence at home? I know nothing of the basic care of infants. I may be a genius, but that doesn't mean I'm knowledgeable of the needs of children."

John kissed him on the cheek.

"You've got me to help you."

Sherlock looked up.

"Really?"

John chuckled.

"Of course, idiot. I'll always be here."

Sherlock smirked.

"I suppose experiments on the baby are out of the question."

John rolled his eyes and got up from the couch.

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock. I'm heading to bed."

Sherlock laughed and reached out to him.

"Oh John, I'm only joking! John!"


	9. Red Champagne

CHAPTER 9

Things were all right for many months to come. Mrs. Hudson was like a grandmother to Charlotte, always willing to babysit, giving John and Sherlock plenty of time to solve little cases here and there. And although small in size, they were enough to stimulate the couple and keep things interesting. John, of course, had long since that night at the flat returned to work and was once again earning money, the way he had been trained to do.

He and Sherlock were happy.

Hardly anyone could keep track of time, and before long, it was Christmas time once again. And this time, John was home to celebrate it.

Reluctantly, Sherlock had agreed to go shopping for gifts, at John's statement that, "It's what couples do."

John, however, immediately regretted his decision to lug Sherlock along, seeing as the childlike detective could not keep his hands off of the breakable items and resist the urge to deduce the life story of the check-out clerk. Frankly, John was quite relieved when they were able to leave the store.

Wrapping the gifts wasn't as much of a nightmare as shopping for them had been. Having turned on 'It's a Wonderful Life', John had the gifts splayed out on the kitchen table, while Sherlock sat at the desk, researching something, quietly. John looked over at the TV screen, smiling at the child in George's arms as she pointed at the ringing bell on the Christmas tree. Unfortunately, John hadn't been paying much attention to the way he was maneuvering the scissors in his hand, and subsequently cut himself.

"Shit!" he cried out, dropping the scissors and grimacing at the gash they had left on the palm of his right hand.

Almost immediately, Sherlock was by his side and cradling John's injured hand, his bony fingers gently tracing the wound. Quickly, Sherlock ran into the bathroom and came back out with a small medical kit, causing John to roll his eyes.

"For God's sake, Sherlock, it's just a-"

"Hush, John," Sherlock said, sitting the good doctor down and cleaning out the wound, John hissing as the antiseptic wipe swiped over the gash on his hand.

Soon, Sherlock had the cut bandaged and kissed John's palm, smiling as he looked up again.

"There. All done."

John sighed.

"You worry too much, Sherlock. My God, it's just a cut!"

Sherlock glowered.

"A cut that, if left untreated, would be at great risk for infection, thus being a detriment to your health. You're a doctor, John, you know this just as well as I do."

John rolled his eyes.

"Whatever. Thanks."

Looking at his hand and back at the unwrapped gifts on the table, John bit his lip.

"Don't think I can really wrap the gifts with much luck, though. Mind giving me a hand?"

Without another word, Sherlock hopped up from his crouched position and went to work wrapping the gifts.

"You really must be more careful, John," he said as he tore a square of tape from it's roll and placed it on the wrapping paper surrounding the object on the table. "I do worry."

John sighed.

"About a cut?"

"About you."

John looked down at the floor, listening to the soundtrack sounding from the speakers as the credits to the movie rolled.

"You shouldn't, you know. I'm perfectly safe with you around," John smiled.

Sherlock paused.

"Hardly. Just a few months ago you slipped off the roof on one of our chases and nearly broke your neck."

"Nearly, though. The building wasn't too high, and I landed on top of some rubbish bags. I was only bruised."

Sherlock sighed.

"Yes, but what if that wasn't all? What if you _had _snapped your neck?"

John got up from the chair and wrapped his arms around Sherlock, favoring his injured hand.

"But I _didn't_. I'm fine, now. You know, aside from the cut on my hand. I promise I won't be leaving so soon. I'm here to stay, whether you like it or not."

Sherlock smirked, trying to stifle a laugh that desperately wanted to make itself audible.

"I hope, for your sake, John, you're telling the truth."

John kissed Sherlock on the cheek and walked over to the Christmas tree, admiring the twinkling lights.

"You excited for the party tonight?"

Sherlock scoffed.

"I still don't understand why we're having this party. We could have had a perfectly fine Christmas with just ourselves and Charlotte."

John frowned.

"Because, Sherlock, it's good to be social with our friends."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I don't have friends, John. I've got you, and that's the extent of it."

John smirked.

"Liar. You've got Molly, and Lestrade, and…" John pondered for a bit. "You've got Molly and Lestrade."

Sherlock waved a hand and continued wrapping a second gift.

"I prefer to think of them as close acquaintances."

John sighed.

"They're coming over, and that's final."

"You didn't invite my brother or your sister did you?"

John hesitated.

"I… erm… I invited both."

He heard an abrupt stop in the rustling of wrapping paper, indicating to him that Sherlock was quite unhappy with this news.

"Damn," was the only sound he heard Sherlock make in response, and he was quite relieved that that was the whole of it.

Sherlock continued wrapping.

"I'm not going to talk to anyone tonight, you do realize."

John shrugged.

"That's probably a good thing."

Sherlock glanced over with a grimace.

"Oh, shut up."

John smiled as he settled into his chair, around the same time that a Christmas album commercial came on-screen.

* * *

><p>Around seven o'clock, the gifts were positioned around the Christmas tree and the table set for dinner. And just in time too, as Molly came walking in right on the dot.<p>

"Molly!" John said with a smile on his face, enveloping the young pathologist in a warm hug.

Molly giggled as she felt the scratchy fabric of John's sweater against her skin, the warmth of it practically radiating off the surface. When John pulled away, however, her smile dissipated.

"John!" she gasped. "What on earth happened to your hand?"

John sighed.

"Incident with the scissors. It'll be all right, though. Sherlock took care of it."

Molly smiled half-heartedly.

"You and him are really a couple, huh?"

John nodded.

"Never really crossed my mind that he was gay," she said with a longing sigh. She walked across the room to greet Sherlock who was pouting in his chair.

Or thinking. John really wasn't sure.

Not long after Molly, Lestrade came in.

"Not much of a party yet, is it, mate?" he grinned and shook John's hand, pulling him into a hug. "How the hell are you, John?" He pulled away and grimaced at John's hand. "And what the hell happened to you?"

John rolled his eyes.

"Cut myself with scissors. Drink?"

Lestrade nodded.

"Been craving one since I left for work this morning."

Almost immediately after John had poured both Lestrade and Molly their drinks, Harry stumbled in through the door, followed by Mycroft.

"Hey, John," Harry smiled tiredly at the door. "Sorry. Still a bit hung-over from a get together last night. Brought a present though," she said, presenting a box poked full of holes. "I know it's not the prettiest lookin' thing, but I thought you'd like it."

John smiled.

"It's beautiful, Harry. Thank you. I'm just glad you're sober enough to be talking coherently."

Harry shrugged.

"Not for long. You got drinks?"

John sighed and pointed her in the direction of the alcohol, Harry's face lighting up when she saw the selection. As soon as she dashed off towards the liquor, making sure to leave the present by the tree, Mycroft walked right up to John.

"Well, Dr. Watson, you certainly have good nerve to invite me to a party after my brother's performance on your behalf."

John shrugged.

"I can't help what he does. Sorry."

Mycroft scowled.

"There has been no trace of Moriarty, still, and I'm becoming quite concerned."

John sighed.

"Will you forget Moriarty for one night and have a drink? London's not in flames at the moment, so I think you should enjoy yourself for once."

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"I suppose I'll take a shot of brandy. I'm not one for inebriation. Unlike your sister, might I add?"

Both looked over at Harry who was greedily sipping a large glass of wine.

"Aren't siblings fun?" John said, sarcastically.

"A ball," Mycroft scoffed, striding over to the alcohol.

Just then, Mrs. Hudson came in.

"Hello, John dear!" she said, wrapping him in a big hug. "Hope you don't mind. I just put Charlotte down for the night and thought I ought to come up to celebrate with you."

John smiled.

"Not at all. Help yourself to some wine or brandy."

Mrs. Hudson frowned at John's hand.

"Scissors," John said, before the landlady could even ask.

Mrs. Hudson nodded and joined the others in the sitting room.

John walked over to Sherlock who was sitting like a statue in his chair, his eyes hardly ever blinking. John waved a hand in front of the detective's eyes, looking for any sign of consciousness.

"Hello? Sherlock?" he said. "Sherlock?"

He sighed, exasperated, and decided to leave the matter be, wanting more to catch up with the guests in the room.

About an hour in, John called everyone to the Christmas tree to open their gifts. Most everyone was satisfied with what they received, aside from Mycroft, who was hardly amused at the umbrella he received, claiming that the handle was 'bulky' and 'an eye-sore'. John just rolled his eyes. Soon, it came his turn to unwrap his gifts. Eagerly, he grabbed the rather large box that Harry had earlier laid under the Christmas tree and opened the lid, not having to fiddle too much with wrapping paper. There, at the bottom, lay a small, wrinkly pug who looked up at him with big eyes and a silly canine smile.

"Thought you might like her," Harry said, surprisingly still coherent even after the incredible amount of wine she'd consumed that night. "S'a dog if you couldn't tell."

John smiled down at the creature, lifting the small pug out of the box and snickering as it licked his nose.

"Well, hello there," John said, giggling. "Look, Sherlock, we've got another one."

Sherlock sat silently in his chair.

John just rolled his eyes and looked back down at the dog.

"What should we call her?" he pondered.

"How about something cute and out of the ordinary, like Dot?" Molly said, laughing at the thought.

"Or Marta? Sounds like a tough girl," Lestrade said with a hearty laugh.

Mycroft rolled his eyes at each suggestion.

"Why name the beast?"

John's face lit up when he found the name.

"Gladstone," he said.

Everyone gave him a puzzled look.

"Gladstone?" Harry asked.

John nodded.

"Yeah. Gladstone. He was a scientist we had to research for one of our recent cases."

Mrs. Hudson put a hand on John's shoulder.

"I love it, dear."

John smiled.

"I do too. How about you?" he said, looking at the pug who wagged her tail in response. "Gladstone it is."

Placing the dog in his lap, John scratched the folds of the dog's skin.

"Thank you, Harry," he said, placing a kiss on his sister's cheek. "Well, I think we should all eat some dinner, huh?"

Just then, Sherlock finally piped up.

"You forgot one, John."

Everyone looked over at Sherlock.

"Finally talking, eh, little brother?" Mycroft sneered.

John smiled out of confusion.

"What do you mean, Sherlock? All the gifts are-"

"Look beneath the tree," Sherlock said, gesturing to the tree. "Go on."

John raised an eyebrow and gently put Gladstone down on the floor, standing up from the chair and walking over to the tree. All the guests remained silent. Sure enough, upon close examination, there was a small box right under the lowest branch of the tree. A small, black box without wrapping paper on it. Hesitantly, John picked it up, feeling its smooth, velvety texture rub against his hand as he held it up.

"Sherl-"

"Open it," Sherlock said, firmly.

Slowly, John opened the hinged lid of the box. As it snapped open, he clasped a hand over his mouth, looking at the contents inside.

Positioned between two small satin cushions was a beautiful silver ring.

"Oh my God," John said, barely a whisper.

Sherlock couldn't help but smile as he watched both John's and the rest of the groups' jaws drop in surprise at the abrupt proposal. Even Molly's glass dropped to the floor, shattering and spilling champagne everywhere.

"I've never been all that impressed by the idea of committing my entire life to one person, as I've never liked anyone that much to even consider the thought. Janine laid aside, as that was only a ruse."

"I sure as hell hope that this isn't a ruse," John said with a skeptical look.

Sherlock smirked.

"I promise, this is sincere. I figured I love you enough to want to commit myself to a long-term relationship."

John strode over to Sherlock, hugging him tightly and kissing him forcefully on the lips. When he broke the kiss, John smiled a wide smile.

"Well then my answer is yes."

The guests all remained silent, still completely shocked as they watched Sherlock slip the ring onto John's finger.

As Sherlock and John kissed again, it was Lestrade who finally spoke.

"Well, it's about time!" he laughed.

The room erupted in applause, with the exception of Mycroft, who could only look on with a dumbfounded and yet, happily pleased expression.

It was a truly wonderful Christmas.


	10. Crooked Candles

CHAPTER 10

The third of January rolled around.

It was Charlotte's first birthday.

It was also the anniversary of Mary's death.

Sherlock, without argument, agreed to accompany John to Mary's grave. It was only right. He stood by and watched John converse with the empty air. He watched as John kneeled down with Charlotte in his arms, placing a lone rose on the grave. He watched as John manually waved Charlotte's arm in the direction of the grave and placed a kiss on the top of the headstone. He made no remarks as John walked back over, an obvious frown on his face.

He simply wrapped an arm around John, hugging him and the baby close to his side and walked him over to the street where he hailed a cab and brought them home.

When they arrived back at the flat, Mrs. Hudson had a cake with lit candles laying on the kitchen table, smiling as she wished an enthusiastic 'Happy Birthday' to Charlotte. John smiled a watery smile as she did so and placed Charlotte in the high chair, going through the motions as he blew out the candles on Charlotte's cake and robotically picked up his fork full of cake and put it into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully on the fluffy piece of chocolate and icing. The day wasn't all bad, as Charlotte provided some laughs as she played with her toys she had received as gifts, gurgling as she did so. After all was said and done, John and Sherlock lay on the couch, watching as Charlotte played with her new dolls.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked, kissing the top of John's head and rubbing his back.

John shrugged.

"I guess. I mean, I feel bad. Charlotte's birthday just happens to fall on the exact same day that Mary died, and instead of being happy for Charlotte, which I really am deep inside, I'm pouting over the fact that her mother is buried in a hole in the ground."

"I suppose it doesn't help, either, that Charlotte is primarily the reason for Mary's passing," Sherlock said.

John heaved a heavy sigh.

"It's not her fault. It really isn't. Shit just happens, and you can't do anything about it. I just feel like a crappy father because I've turned Charlotte's birthday into a funeral."

Sherlock smiled, sadly.

"She seems to be having a rather good time."

John looked over at Charlotte who was giggling as Gladstone licked her face.

John smiled half-heartedly.

"Yeah, I guess."

Sherlock hugged John close to him.

"You are a wonderful father, John. Don't deny the fact."

John chuckled.

"Now you're just trying to flirt with me."

Sherlock shrugged.

"Maybe I am. Maybe I'm not. You make your own deduction about it."

John smirked at the detective before pushing himself up from the couch and heading into the kitchen to make some tea.

* * *

><p>After putting Charlotte to bed that night, Sherlock and John crawled into bed together, snuggling up against each other, embracing the warmth they provided one another.<p>

"Sherlock?" John said, his words somewhat muffled by the pillow.

"Hm?"

"I really am glad I have you here."

Sherlock smiled.

"And I, you, John."

John brought Sherlock's hand up to his lips and kissed it, ever so gently.

"John?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah?"

Sherlock hesitated before proceeding.

"Do promise me we'll have the rest of our lives to live together."

John chuckled.

"Do you really need me to?"

Sherlock nodded.

"That way I have something to hold you to."

John smiled, amused.

"I might not have much choice in the matter, but… yes. I promise."

Sherlock sighed, relieved.

"Don't forget your promise, John."

John shook his head.

"Never."

The two lovers slept well that night, lulled to sleep by the soft streams of moonlight illuminating the room in a soft, silver glow.


	11. Rosy Kisses

CHAPTER 11

The rest of January seemed to pass by much too quickly, soon bringing about the first week of February which sped by just as fast. Before one could even blink, Valentine's Day had arrived.

Sherlock was never one to remember such trivial things as what days certain holidays happened to fall on. Hell, he could hardly be bothered to remember his own birthday.

As far as he knew, February the fourteenth was just like any other day.

That's why it came as a surprise to him when John came back home to the flat after (supposedly) going out to pick up some more milk with a bouquet of roses in one hand and a wrapped gift in the other.

"Oh, damn," John said, blushing as red as the flowers in his hand. "Mrs. Hudson texted me that you had gone out while I was shopping. I thought I might be able to surprise you."

Sherlock looked absolutely confused.

"Surprise me?"

John nodded.

"Yeah. But I should have known better. No one can ever really surprise the great Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock knitted his brow.

"Why would you?"

John seemed to frown a bit at this question.

Sherlock was missing _something_. He was sure of it.

"Do you really not know what day it is today?" John asked.

"Of course I know. It's the fourteenth. Why?"

John rolled his eyes and walked over to where Sherlock was sitting in his chair, holding out the flowers and gift.

"It's Valentine's Day, idiot."

Sherlock was not sure as to what he should do. He looked up in complete shock at John who was begging him to take the gifts, his eyes shifting momentarily to Gladstone who was sitting in the middle of the rug, cocking her head at the two men as if sympathizing with Sherlock's obvious distress.

"John, I-"

"Take them."

Sherlock hesitantly reached out for the two gifts with both hands and laid them down on his lap once he had them in his grasp. His fingers danced slowly over the surface of the small, wrapped box on his lap, as if they were unsure as to what to do next.

John cleared his throat.

"The next step would be to open it, Sherlock," he said, an air of humor about his voice.

He obviously wasn't mad, which was a blessing in and of itself.

Sherlock carefully tore open the wrapping paper and lifted the lid off the box in his hand.

He raised an inquisitive eyebrow at the single DVD that he saw before him.

"It's just a little something I put together for you. You don't have to play it now. Or ever, really. It's kind of a sentimental thing, which I know isn't exactly your cup of tea."

"John…" Sherlock said, at a loss for words.

"In fact, I don't know why I gave it to you in the first place," John said, getting up from his chair and reaching for the disc in Sherlock's hand. "You probably won't-"

"Thank you."

John looked shocked.

"What?"

Sherlock smiled up at him.

"Thank you, John."

John cleared his throat.

"Oh. Yeah, um… you're welcome. Erm… yeah, so, you don't have to watch it."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"What did you place on here, pornographic material? Nude pictures of yourself?"

John shook his head at both.

"Well, then what are you so worried about?"

John shrugged his shoulders.

"Getting you gifts has always been a sort of stressful thing. I don't know if you'll like it."

Sherlock stood up and kissed John on the lips.

"I'm sure I'll love it. But I feel as if I should save it."

John laughed nervously.

"Yeah, that would um… yeah. Good. Good."

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's waist and gave the good doctor another kiss, this time a bit fuller.

"I apologize for forgetting such a significant holiday, John," he said when he released his hold.

John shrugged.

"I didn't really expect you to remember, anyway. If you're worried about not getting me a gift…"

Sherlock shook his head.

"I've actually got some news for you that might equate to a Valentine's gift."

John raised an eyebrow.

"What is it?"

Sherlock grinned.

"How about a case tomorrow?"

John's face lit up.

"Lestrade texted you?"

Sherlock nodded.

"It's about Moriarty."

The light in John's face dimmed.

"Oh, don't worry, John," Sherlock said. "I've drawn my own sensible conclusions on the matter. I know that the criminal whom we're dealing with is not Moriarty, but another criminal using his image to scare the whole of London. I just figure we could use the exercise."

John bit the inside of his cheek, nervously.

"Yeah but what if-"

Sherlock stopped him.

"If it does turn out to be Moriarty himself, then we will take care of the problem the way we always do."

"Shoot it?"

Sherlock nodded with a smirk upon his face.

"Make sure you bring your Browning along. The game, my dear Watson, is on!"

John rolled his eyes.

"You just love saying that, don't you?"

"Very much so, yes."

The doctor peered over at the stove clock.

"Well, if we're going to be gallivanting around London we ought to get to bed."

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders.

"You go on, John. I won't be able to do much sleeping with this case on my mind."

John sighed.

"Promise me you'll get to bed soon, love?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Will promising make you feel better?"

He looked at the stern expression on John's face.

"Fine. I promise."

With a satisfied smile, John elevated himself so he was standing on his toes and pecked the detective on the cheek.

"Happy Valentine's Day, idiot."

When John's footsteps faded away into the bedroom, Sherlock sighed and sat himself down on the chair. He picked up the disc that he had laid on the arm of the chair and inspected it.

_Whatever could be on this desk? And what did he mean by 'a sentimental thing'?_

Sherlock was eager to see what was stored on the thing, but he figured it was best to lay it aside and save it for a rainy day. Not literally, of course. Sherlock thought it odd how _that _was the expression that had been coined. Why a rainy day? Why not a snowy day?

He shook his head of these useless thoughts and put the disc back in the sleeve it had come in in the box. To keep it safe. He smiled at the roses that lay on the floor. Picking them up, he walked over to the kitchen and dug around a bit to find an uncontaminated vase. He promptly filled it with water and gently placed the roses inside of it. He sighed longingly.

"Happy Valentine's Day, John. And many, many more."


	12. Hush Little Baby

CHAPTER 12

The next morning, Sherlock and John made sure that Charlotte was in good hands with Mrs. Hudson, and proceeded to Scotland Yard, getting incrementally more and more excited as the cab neared the building. Both had been itching for a case ever since the last one came to a close. And that was days ago. They needed more.

When they were finally parked in front of the building and had crawled outside the cab, the two held hands as they made their way through the front doors, earning looks from passing staff as they walked over to Lestrade's office.

"Good morning, Lestrade," Sherlock said, quite jovially.

Lestrade looked up, a haggard look on his face.

"Jesus, you're here. Things have gotten much worse since I texted you. Take a look at this," Lestrade said, moving over so that Sherlock could take a look at the computer screen.

Sherlock knitted his brow as he stared intently at the screen. There, on the screen was a photograph of a dead body, fresh from what he could tell, the words, 'Did You Miss Me?" written on the wall above it.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"What do you mean they've gotten worse? There's a dead body. Dead bodies are a normal thing in these cases."

Lestrade shook his head.

"You know as well as I do that Moriarty's behind this."

"We can't be sure," John said, peering over Sherlock's shoulder.

Lestrade growled, frustrated.

"No! The computer database here was hacked, and instead of pulling up criminal records, each file we clicked on brought up _his _face with _those _words below it. Like a screen cap of what everyone saw when he broadcast his face on live television. And now there's a dead body. I'd say this has escalated. And it has Moriarty's name written all over it."

"More accurately, his face. Let me see the photo again."

"Go on! Nothing's stopping you," Lestrade said, gesturing towards the computer.

After scrutinizing the photo once more, Sherlock straightened his back.

"I believe I know where that is. We'll have him for you, Lestrade. Or if he's gone, we'll have found a dead body. Come along, John," Sherlock said, grabbing John's hand and pulling him out of the office and back into the street where he once again signaled a cab and allowed himself and John to clamber inside before directing the cabbie to his destination.

"Where are we going, Sherlock?" John asked, confusion racking his brain.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"An abandoned warehouse just about twenty minutes from where we are."

John's eyes widened in shock.

"God, Sherlock, we'll hardly be able to pay for the cab ride there, let alone back!"

Sherlock smirked.

"Remember how I told you about how I rob Lestrade when he's annoying?"

Sherlock whipped Lestrade's police badge out of his coat pocket, flaunting the thing in front of John's face.

John snorted.

"God, you're hopeless," he said with a smile.

Sherlock playfully pecked him on the cheek.

"You love me for it."

"Quite right, too. God help me," John said, rolling his eyes.

The cab ride passed by a bit more quickly than John had initially anticipated. He helped, it supposed, that Sherlock was actually being quite a bit more sociable than usual, providing the good doctor with something to do on the journey. Sherlock may not have often been aware, but ordinary people got bored too.

Once spotting their intended destination, Sherlock commanded the cabbie to stop immediately, flaunting his (Lestrade's, really) badge to him, claiming that both he and John were on official business. Of course, that wasn't much of a lie, but he could have stood to pay for the ride.

Quickly, John and Sherlock exited the cab and were soon standing outside on the sidewalk, the cool morning air blowing through the fabric of their coats and chilling them to the bone. John clutched his arms and rubbed them in an up and down motion, trying to will his circulation to warm him up.

"Jesus, it's colder than I thought," John said, clenching his teeth.

Sherlock whipped off his scarf and wrapped it around John's neck, ignoring the doctor's protests.

"My coat protects my neck from the cold. Yours doesn't. It would be highly inconsiderate and irresponsible of me if I were to let you freeze."

John smiled inwardly. He didn't want to admit it, but he quite liked this different, compassionate Sherlock.

His smile was broken as he heard a frustrated sound come from Sherlock immediately following the clatter of a padlock grinding against metal.

"Dammit!" Sherlock cried.

John ran over to the doors of the warehouse.

"Locked?"

Sherlock angrily ruffled his hair.

"I was hoping we wouldn't have to, but it seems we must find another way in."

As Sherlock started madly dashing about the building, analyzing possible entrances, a moving shadow caught John's eye.

"Sherlock," he said in a hushed tone.

When it was clear the detective couldn't hear him, John backed up a few steps and tapped him on the shoulder.

"Hm?" Sherlock said, flipping his entire body in the direction John was looking in.

He spotted the shadow as well, going dead silent. The two watched closely as the shadow stretched across the pavement, hinting that its owner had been at the top of the ladder and was slowly descending it.

"How incredibly easy," Sherlock said under his breath. "Have you got your Browning?"

John nodded his head.

"Right then. Let's go."

They crept slowly over to the right side of the building where they had spotted the shadow. It appeared that whoever was creating it was making his way over to the sidewalk. Before John had time to think, Sherlock had grabbed his hand and ran right out in front of the criminal. Absent-mindedly, John pulled out his gun and pointed it at the man.

"So, you must be the great Sherlock Holmes," the man said.

He had a gruff voice, like rocks grinding on asphalt.

Sherlock remained stoic.

"Isn't it obvious?"

"Come to foil my 'dastardly plan'?"

"What _is _your plan, anyway?" John asked, with the utmost sincerity.

The man clucked his tongue.

"Now, now. We wouldn't want to give that away, would we?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Moving on. The body in the warehouse. Bait, I presume?"

The man shrugged.

"It worked."

"Indeed, it did. Good job."

The criminal stood still, his hands relaxed in the pockets of his sweatshirt. It was hard to see, but beneath the shade of the hood, John could swear he saw the faintest of grins painted on the man's face.

"But why lead us directly to you?" Sherlock asked after pondering for a brief moment. "Unless you've led me here to kill me. In which case, I must frown upon the predictability of that move. You would be horrible at chess."

The man's grin seemed to widen.

"I'm only here to finish what Mr. Moriarty started."

Sherlock looked slightly amused.

"Oh really? And what's that?"

The man's hand clenched beneath his pocket.

"Burning the heart out of you."

Before Sherlock could have time to react, the criminal pulled a gun out from his pocket. Instinctively, John fired, hoping to God that his bullet would somehow beat the man to the trigger.

Luck, however, was not on his side.

Sherlock watched in horror as the criminal fired.

He wanted to do something. To jump in the way, to push John out of the way. _Anything_. But he couldn't force his damned feet to move. He was frozen in place, as if unable to penetrate the time bubble that seemed to envelop both John and the criminal. All he could do was hope that the man was a lousy shot.

What followed instead of the desired miss was a small, withheld cry from John as the bullet tore through his flesh, sending him to the ground as blood spurted from his new wound like a fountain.

Sherlock dropped to his knees, catching the fallen army doctor in his arms and laid the man gently on the ground, calling his name, trying to get his attention, completely forgetting the criminal who had most likely made his way over the fence into the adjacent street.

Frantically, Sherlock grabbed John's shoulders and gave them a shake.

"John! John can you hear me?!" he cried.

John blinked his eyes, blearily.

"Fuck," he said, hissing. "I've been shot."

Sherlock rolled his eyes in frustration.

"Obviously. Hang on."

Quickly whipping out his phone, Sherlock texted Lestrade of his whereabouts. He hardly grimaced at the lack of grammar in his text, more concerned about the quickly growing pool of blood surrounding both him and John.

"Sh-sh-erlock…" John said, shaking.

Sherlock hushed him, stroking a stray hair out of his face.

"Everything's all right, John. Everything is going to be all right."

He quickly placed his hands on the wound and pressed down, hard, causing John to grit his teeth in pain.

"I promise, it will all be all right."

John shook his head.

"Sherlock, it… it punctured… my lung…"

Sherlock nodded.

"I know, John, I know. But you can make it. You can pull through."

John shook his head again.

"N-no. Ambulance takes… fifteen minutes at least. I've… got five… at most."

Sherlock felt tears welling up in his eyes.

"Dammit, John Watson, you are going to hold on! I'm not letting you die! You can't die! You have so much to live for!"

John smiled sadly at the man.

Desperately, Sherlock scrambled ideas around in his brain of how to convince John to stay. Suddenly, the thought came to mind.

"We're engaged, remember?" he said, putting on a watery smile as he sniffed. "Look."

Sherlock, with his top hand, picked up John's limp one and held it up for him to see. He gently touched the ring on John's finger.

"Look. There's the ring, right there."

John chuckled softly, immediately coughing up blood.

"I'm sorry, Sherl…"

Sherlock shook his head furiously, placing John's hand beneath his own, so as to more effectively stem the blood flow.

"What about Charlotte?! She needs a father, and you can't just leave her behind! She _needs _you, John!"

John brought a hand up to Sherlock's cheek.

"I can't. You… have to b-be… you have to be her f-father."

Sherlock felt his lip tremble, and he felt like a child all over again; helpless.

"I can't, John."

John nodded.

"Y-yes you c-can. Please. For me."

Sherlock felt his withheld tears burn hot.

"John, I don't know how."

John coughed again.

"P-promise me you'll be there. For h-her."

Sherlock started to argue again, but John brought up a hand to Sherlock's bicep, gripping it tightly.

"Promise. Me."

Sherlock nodded.

"I promise."

John sighed, bringing his hand down to his side.

"Good."

Sherlock watched in horror as John's eyes began to close.

"Don't you dare!" he cried out.

John shook his head, sleepily.

"Wasn't. Promise."

Sherlock gripped John's hand beneath his own.

"Please, John, don't do this. Charlotte needs you."

He paused.

"_I _need you. Don't leave me here alone, John. I can't be alone. Not again."

John's eyes drooped.

Sherlock felt a tear trickle down his cheek as he watched the man he loved start to die right before him.

"I love you, John Watson."

John smiled weakly.

"I know. Ditto."

Slowly, John reached up his hand and put his hand on the nape of Sherlock's neck, pulling the man down into a kiss. Sherlock didn't care that he tasted the familiar metallic taste of blood. He just enjoyed every moment that John's lips kissed his own back. Each moment just meant that John was still alive. Still with _him_.

John's head fell back.

"Mmm… that was nice."

Sherlock stroked his blogger's cheek.

"We can exchange so many more kisses, John. You just have to hang on."

John felt tears of his own start to come.

It was when Sherlock saw John crying, he knew how hopeless the situation was. John was going to die. And these were to be Sherlock's last moments spent with him.

"No!" he cried, reaching for the scarf around John's neck.

Before he could even touch the scarf, he felt a hand grab his wrist.

"Please don't," John whimpered. "I'm so cold."

Sherlock gazed sadly at his lover.

"Oh God, John…"

"Please," John said again, this time even more desperate.

Sherlock felt his chest tighten as he removed his hands from the wound.

John's last moments were now.

He tried so hard to hold back the tears that were pooling in his eyes as he moved John's head into his lap.

He frowned at the sight of John's shivering form, immediately removing his coat and draping it over him.

"Oh God… hurts…" John moaned.

Sherlock gently stroked John's hair.

"I love you, John."

"Cold…"

"I love you."

John's eyes drooped.

"'m so tired, Sherl…"

Sherlock hushed him.

"Sleep, love."

As John allowed his eyes to begin to close, he heard the faint sound of Sherlock humming his favorite lullaby.

A small smile appeared on his face as he closed his eyes.


	13. As the Snowflakes Fall

CHAPTER 13

Snow landed gracefully on the windowpane outside, covering the glass in a beautiful sheet of white.

The beauty of it made Sherlock scowl. How insulting it was to the ugliness he felt inside.

His arm hung limply over the side of the chair, fingers barely touching the fuzzy carpet on the floor. He felt something nudge his hand. As a result of ignoring it, he felt it lick the palm of his hand out of determination.

_Only Gladstone. Not worth acknowledging._

Suddenly, Sherlock heard a slight creak in the floorboards behind him.

"Hello, Sherlock," a timid voice said. "It's Molly."

Sherlock remained unresponsive as Molly came around to face him.

"Thought I ought to check up on you. You haven't been answering my calls or texts."

No response from the man, still.

Molly shifted nervously in place.

"They've, erm… they've scheduled the funeral for Friday at three. Thought I should let you know. So you can come."

Sherlock watched in silence as the snowflakes danced outside.

"Would you like to come by the morgue? You know, so you can see him again?"

Sherlock showed no sign of having any connection to reality, though he heard every word.

Molly bit her lip.

"That was rude. I'm sorry. I… are you okay?" Molly stared at the detective for a moment. "Of course not. That was a stupid question. It's obvious you're not."

Hesitantly, Molly reached a hand out towards Sherlock's knee, gently placing it there, quickly drawing it back when she realized how inappropriate it must have been

"I… sorry. Really, Sherlock, I am. Sorry, I mean. No one could have seen it coming. I know I didn't. And it must be so…" She sniffed, holding back tears. "It must be really, really hard for you. And I couldn't possibly imagine what you're going through. I really couldn't, I know. And I won't insult you by saying otherwise. Just… oh boy…" Tears began to roll down her cheeks. "Just… know, Sherlock, that I'm here for you. If you need anything. At all. I'm here."

She gently kissed Sherlock on the top of his head.

"It's going to be okay."

Then she walked out of the room as quickly as she had come through.

When Sherlock heard the door shut, he sighed. Quiet time.

Much to his dismay, he soon heard footsteps reenter the room, accompanied with the sound of quiet sobs.

"Sherlock, dear?"

Mrs. Hudson. Of course.

Mrs. Hudson rushed around the corner of Sherlock's chair, attacking him with a large, warm embrace, allowing her tears to seep into his satin shirt.

"Oh dear, you had me worried. You haven't made a sound in at least three days."

Sherlock couldn't bring himself to react to the sudden close interaction with another human being. His mind was too far outside reality.

Mrs. Hudson drew back, wiping her nose.

"Molly told me about the funeral on Friday. It just doesn't seem right that it's John's."

Sherlock continued staring vacantly out the window.

He felt Mrs. Hudson put a hand on his shoulder.

"I've got Charlotte for you, when you're ready to… to take care of her," Mrs. Hudson said, bringing a hand to her throat, trying to hide the choked sob that came out.

She looked pitifully down at the distraught detective.

"How about some tea?"

Sherlock didn't respond, earning a sad sigh from Mrs. Hudson.

"Oh, dear," she said, clasping a hand over her mouth and walking back out of the flat.

Sherlock was becoming awfully tired of the constant running in and out going on in the flat. It was an annoyance to the ears.

Fortunately, the interruptions ceased for quite a few hours, giving Sherlock the time and space to keep to himself. To stare out the window at the whiteness outside.

It wasn't long after those few precious hours, however, before he heard more footsteps in the room. This time, they were accompanied by a sharp '_clack' _which could only be possibly made by a piece of metal, like a band around the toe of a shoe or the tip of… an umbrella.

_Mycroft_.

Sure enough, Mycroft came striding over to the chair, facing the direction of the window as Sherlock was doing.

"What a dreary day, isn't it, little brother?" he said with a small sigh.

Sherlock remained silent.

"I don't suppose you were planning on picking up the phone when I called?"

When Mycroft received silence once again, he looked concernedly down at the younger Holmes, knitting his brow as he did so.

"You continue to puzzle me, Sherlock," he said, pulling up a chair from the desk and placing it next to Sherlock's black one. "So many times you've made it quite clear that sentimentality is not something you condone. And yet, here you are, sitting in a catatonic state over the death of a mere doctor."

Sherlock's vacant stare showed no sign of any emotion other than sadness.

Mycroft sighed.

"I assume you were told about the funeral arrangements concerning Dr. Watson's passing?"

Silence.

"Are you planning on attending?"

Again, silence.

Mycroft's lips thinned into a straight line as he shifted his position in his chair, trying to formulate words. He was unfamiliar with handling situations such as these. And the fact that it was his younger brother who was suffering made it all the more difficult.

Mycroft cleared his throat.

"I shall send a car when Friday arrives to escort you to the venue where the service will be held. I don't expect you to take a cab."

As Mycroft got up to leave, he gazed remorsefully at the sad man that was his brother, now a shell of his former self.

He couldn't bring himself to say anything. Nothing, he knew, could better the situation.

What had happened was a tragedy, and even Mycroft couldn't deny that.

The elder Holmes exited the flat without another word, leaving the younger to mourn in peace and quiet.

The wind seemed to howl much louder that night.


	14. A Hand to Hold

CHAPTER 14

The rest of the week seemed to pass by much too quickly.

All of it had been a blur; the constant running's about by Mrs. Hudson, making tea and trying to make conversation; the snow falling and melting outside on a continuous cycle; the constant ringing of the phone from concerned acquaintances who were more curious as to whether or not Sherlock was planning on showing at the funeral than anything else.

For that, Sherlock felt blessed.

But there was one thing that he could never seem to overlook or brush off as if it were some other outside annoyance:

The nightmares.

He tried to stay awake. He really did. But Sherlock could only make it 'til about three o'clock in the morning before he lost his battle with exhaustion. With the constant lack of stimulation for his brain, he couldn't stay up as late as he would've liked to.

And falling asleep was no pleasant break from reality. In fact, it only further awakened Sherlock to the fact that his lover, John Watson, was dead. The events of that fateful day constantly replayed in his mind whenever he closed his eyes, and it only worsened the depression which he knew was consuming him.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew of his many new obligations that resulted from John's death, namely the infant girl whom he had promised to care for, but the main part of his brain was so full of buzzing thoughts, Sherlock honestly thought his head might explode if he were to actually push forth the important thoughts that nested in the back corner of his brain into the insane cluster of other thoughts that dominated the majority of his mind.

Just thinking this thought practically gave him a migraine.

The day which Sherlock had dreaded so fully throughout the week had arrived.

Friday.

He had hardly moved about the flat and hadn't changed his clothes in days, so he could practically predict the hell he was going to receive from Mrs. Hudson when she came upstairs to prepare him for the event.

He had thought wrong, as Mrs. Hudson was just as silent as he was as she helped him into his bedroom and laid out a boring, black suit and tie for the funeral. Sherlock, without much restraint or argument, put the suit on and allowed Mrs. Hudson to spritz him with a strong cologne and comb out his hair, to hide the fact that he hadn't had a good shower in at least four days.

Once three o'clock rolled around, Sherlock heard the tires of the car Mycroft had sent crunch against the gray slush, that used to be snow, outside. He allowed Mrs. Hudson to lead him down the steps and to the car, crawling inside first, scooting over slightly to make enough room for the landlady and the baby, whom she had dressed in between tending to Sherlock and the car's arrival. When exactly, Sherlock wasn't sure. But then again, details like this weren't too important to him lately.

It was a long, silent ride to the funeral home. Neither of the passengers spoke for the full twenty minutes it took to arrive.

Upon arrival, Sherlock was greeted by the many solemn faces of strangers that were most likely old friends of John's. Harry was the only person among the small, unfamiliar crowd whom Sherlock remotely recognized. His eyes fell upon the more familiar face of Molly Hooper, his eyes then shifting to Lestrade, and then finally to Mycroft. Why Mycroft was there, Sherlock hadn't the slightest clue. Mycroft didn't give a shit. He never had.

Sherlock took a quick glance over at the open coffin positioned at the front of the room and immediately turned away, resisting the urge to vomit. He knew who lay inside that casket, and he most certainly did not want to be reminded of the fact.

The service soon began. Of course, Harry was the first one up at the podium. She was already tipsy; having drank quite a considerable amount of spirits before most of the invited showed up, so her speech was a bit slurred and incoherent, mostly composed of sobs. The next to stand up at the podium was Mike Stamford, whom Sherlock hadn't seen beforehand in the room. Mike shared a few solemn words which the detective didn't bother to listen to. The only thing he really paid particular attention to was the sad gaze from Mike pointed directly at him at the end of the speech.

Many others went up and delivered very monotonous speeches, all repeating the same, boring messages that conveyed the overall meaning of, "He will be missed."

The fact that they were all so dull infuriated Sherlock. John deserved better.

He sat silently in the car that followed the black hearse to the cemetery, hardly paying attention to the hushed words Mrs. Hudson, Molly, and Lestrade were exchanging in the back seat and the small sounds Charlotte was making in reaction to the noise. Frankly, he didn't care.

The sermon was short, repetitive, and absolutely boring, the way it seemed to always be at these sorts of things. But the sermon wasn't what really twisted the knife in Sherlock's heart.

It was the burial itself.

He watched in absolute terror as the casket which John was laying inside was lowered into a deep hole in the ground. Physically, Sherlock restrained himself from screaming at them to stop what they were doing. It was his thoughts that were going completely insane inside his head.

_What are they doing?! No! John needs air! Open the coffin! Open it! He needs to breathe! You can't bury him, he needs air! He needs air! Stop the burial and open the damn coffin, you imbeciles!_

Sherlock's distress was clear on his face, as his features were somewhat twisted as if he were experiencing cramps in his lower abdominals.

As the dirt began to be shoveled back down into the hole and on top of the coffin, Sherlock felt a hand grab his and squeeze it, the owner's fingers interlocking with his. It was definitely a large hand with a very strong grip. Obviously it belonged to a man. But Sherlock didn't bother look over. He was just content in pretending that the hand that was holding his belonged to John.

As the last of the dirt was thrown on top of the now filled hole, the workers in charge of the procedure tapped the small, brown mound that had been left and compacted it so that it was level with the surrounding ground.

Never once did the hand leave Sherlock's, and for that, the detective was grateful.

Sherlock never did attend the reception that followed, nor did he ever really find out who it was who had been so compassionate.

Perhaps it was for the best.

* * *

><p>That night, back at the flat, Sherlock sat in his chair in his wrinkled dressing gown and pajama pants, staring vacantly at the empty chair across from him.<p>

Mrs. Hudson had apparently turned his chair back in its proper direction while he had been dressing that day.

Sherlock's bottom lip quivered as memories of John, clad in a warm, white jumper, floated through his mind; memories of watching his blogger tap away at the keyboard of his MacBook, blogging about a recent case; memories of John sitting there in the chair, tea by his side and an open newspaper propped up on his knee; memories of watching John as he slept in that chair on the late nights, kissing the top of the ex-army doctor's blonde head and inhaling the scent of his cologne.

The detective felt as if someone were stabbing him in the heart repeatedly.

How he wished that that hand were holding his once more.


	15. Setting Down the Violin

CHAPTER 15

A week had passed since the funeral.

Sherlock had resigned himself to standing now, playing perhaps the saddest tune that one could ever think of composing on his violin.

He tried to drown himself in the solemn sound. To forget it all.

As muffled notes came trailing sadly out of the door and down the stairs of 221B Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson crept as quietly as she could up the steps, the music that the violin was making bringing a tear to her eye. She shook off the feeling, as she felt it probably irresponsible to start sobbing with a one-year old child resting against her shoulder. When she reached the door, she rapped her knuckles timidly on the wooden frame.

"Sherlock?" she called out over the noise of the violin.

The music stopped.

"Sherlock, dear?" Mrs. Hudson said again, stepping quietly into the flat.

Sherlock craned his head slightly in the direction of the noise.

"I've got Charlotte here for you if you're ready."

Sherlock turned back to the window.

Mrs. Hudson took a few hesitant steps in Sherlock's direction.

"I can't take care of her forever."

Sherlock put his violin on the chair behind him, immediately facing the window again, his shoulders slouching a bit.

Mrs. Hudson sighed a sad sigh.

"Please, dear, you can't live like this forever. John would have wanted you to move on. Not just for him, but for Charlotte. Charlotte needs a father, and Lord knows the best I can be is a grandmother. She needs you, Sherlock."

Sherlock turned around slowly, until his body was completely facing the landlady. He took a few short steps until he was mere inches away from her, and peered down at Charlotte. He looked at Mrs. Hudson for a split second, his eyes looking completely hollow and full of hurt and confusion. They silently asked the woman the question that she had been ready to hear for quite some time.

"Of course, dear," she said, gently placing Charlotte in the detective's open arms.

For a moment, the two stood silently in the room, Sherlock looking helpless as he awkwardly held the infant in his arms. He looked down at her face, earning a smile from the little thing. Her smile caused tears to well up in the man's eyes. His lip quivered, forming into a sort of sad smile as the child reached up to his shirt collar with wandering fingers.

"She looks so much like him," Sherlock said, choking on the last few words.

"She certainly does, doesn't she?"

Sherlock felt his chest tighten.

"She really is mine?"

Mrs. Hudson nodded.

"Now she is."

A strange sound came from Sherlock as he swallowed a hard lump in his throat. He gazed down at the young girl smiling up at him.

"Oh God, what am I thinking," Sherlock said, placing Charlotte back in Mrs. Hudson's arms. "I can't raise a child."

Mrs. Hudson frowned at him.

"I hate to reprimand you right after you've spoken for the first time in two weeks, but Sherlock, really. Who else has she got?"

Sherlock wiped his nose with his sleeve, sniffing as he did so.

"What about you?"

Mrs. Hudson raised an eyebrow.

"Now, dear, you know as well as I do that I haven't got too many years ahead of me."

Sherlock shrugged.

"You've got enough to get her through secondary school."

Mrs. Hudson knitted her brow in frustration.

"Sherlock Holmes, you are the legal guardian of this young girl. John made sure to take care of all of the paperwork right after you two became a couple. Don't back out on the poor child. She needs her father."

Sherlock shook his head.

"I can't be a father."

Mrs. Hudson put her free hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

"Who says you can't try?"

Sherlock looked up, his eyes glistening. He slowly reached out his arms and picked up Charlotte again, holding the girl by the waist and looking her in the eyes.

After a moment, he spoke again.

"I suppose she's all I've got, now."

Mrs. Hudson smiled, sadly.

"Well, you've got me and your…" she hesitated. "…other friends, right?"

Sherlock stared intently at the young child's face.

"She's all that's left of John."

Mrs. Hudson clamped her mouth shut, the mention of the dead man's name filling her mind with so many memories.

"I suppose you are right, dear."

Sherlock drew the infant in close to him, resting her small torso against his chest and her cheek on his shoulder. He brought his large, slender hand up to the back of Charlotte's head and caressed it, his fingers brushing through her smooth, blonde hair.

He felt his throat close up.

_Damn these emotions_.

"Oh, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson said with a small, barely withheld sob.

The landlady brought a hand up to Sherlock's cheek and stroked it gently.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said in a loud, commanding voice.

He softened his tone.

"Thank you."

Mrs. Hudson nodded with a sad smile and walked out of the flat and down the stairs, leaving Sherlock with Charlotte.

Sherlock inhaled the smell of the baby's skin, his nose detecting the use of baby lotion and shampoo, which was a deduction so simple that Anderson himself could make it.

_Stop deducing my daughter, you idiot,_ a voice in Sherlock's head commanded him.

John's voice.

Sherlock sighed longingly at the memory of the voice which he had come to love so much over the years.

He rested his cheek on the top of Charlotte's head and closed his eyes.

"You are all I've got," he whispered. "And I protect what's mine."

Sherlock rubbed the infant's back.

"Nothing bad will ever happen to you, Charlotte Holmes," Sherlock said. "Nothing."

He hugged her tightly.

"I promise."


	16. What Tea Cannot Heal

CHAPTER 16

The first month of parenthood for Sherlock was perhaps the most arduous challenge he'd ever had to face.

Mrs. Hudson was by his side almost every minute, instructing the clueless detective on how to hold the baby, wash the baby, feed the baby, change the baby's diaper; everything that accompanied being a father.

Once Sherlock almost poisoned Charlotte by coming close to placing her baby food in a dish that had a small amount of arsenic leftover from an experiment from about a month beforehand. Thank goodness Mrs. Hudson had been there to slap the dish out of Sherlock's hands.

At least twice he'd mistaken the baby powder for paprika and had forced Mrs. Hudson to snatch the bottle out of his hands and give him a good scolding.

Finally, it seemed, at the end of the month, Sherlock had a grasp on basic parenting skills that cleared him for handling Charlotte on his own.

"Now, dear, you're sure you've got it?" Mrs. Hudson asked when Sherlock requested that he be left on his own.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Don't doubt my capabilities, Mrs. Hudson. Of course I'm sure. In fact, I'm quite positive that I'm fully prepared to take on the responsibilities as a parent. After all, she has already been fed and changed. Putting her to bed shouldn't be too laborious a task."

Mrs. Hudson put her hands on her hips.

"I'm only trying to make sure that that dear little thing is safe from arsenic and paprika in your care."

Sherlock gave Mrs. Hudson a stern look.

"I assure you, Mrs. Hudson, that I am ready."

Mrs. Hudson put her hands up.

"Alright, dear, alright. If you need anything at all just give me a yell."

Sherlock nodded.

"I appreciate your willingness to aid me in parenting Charlotte, Mrs. Hudson, but I am absolutely certain that I will be completely sufficient on my own."

The landlady nodded.

"Right, dear. I'm out."

As Mrs. Hudson ascended the stairs, she couldn't withhold the wide grin that had been threatening to take over her face throughout her entire conversation with the detective.

Charlotte was Sherlock's anchor, she knew.

Charlotte was John.

She filled the void.

Sherlock looked over at Charlotte who was playing happily with her toys, pouting as Gladstone came along and plopped herself down on top of the teddy bear that lay in the center of the room.

The sight made him smile a soft smile.

"Playing with your toys, I see," he said, sitting down in front of Charlotte.

He shooed Gladstone off of the stuffed bear and brushed off the stray dog fur that had become ensnared in the bear's fur.

"Hmph," he huffed, further examining the toy.

_Small hole next to button eye, frayed fur, sun-bleached, slightly chipped nose; obviously a hand-me-down. _

"Well, this is, for lack of a better word, quite a crappy teddy-bear, wouldn't you say?" he asked, looking at Charlotte.

Charlotte looked back at him with a glazed look in her eyes.

Sherlock chuckled at his own stupidity.

"Of course I know you can't understand a word I'm saying. First it's skulls and now it's infant children. I would say I'm going quite mad."

Charlotte turned her attention back over to her dolls.

Sherlock sighed and stood up, walking over to the kitchen counter to fix himself a cup of tea. As he was putting the kettle on the stove, he felt something cold and wet nudge his leg. When he looked down, he was met by the eyes of a very hungry Gladstone.

"If it weren't so utterly absurd, I would make the claim that your stomach is nothing but a black hole."

Gladstone opened her mouth and let her tongue roll lazily out, dripping drool on the linoleum.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"You are lucky that messes don't bother me."

As the kettle sat on the stove, Sherlock whipped out Gladstone's dog bowl and poured her at least two cups of her dog food.

Gladstone trotted over to the bowl and sniffed at the food inside it, looking back at Sherlock with a disgusted expression.

"Well, what do you expect from brand name dog food?" Sherlock said, putting his hands on his hips.

Hunger won over the dog's want for something a bit more luxurious, so she reluctantly began eating the food in the bowl.

After pouring himself a mug of hot water and steeping the tea bag, Sherlock walked back into the sitting room where he sat himself down in his chair and resigned himself to watching Charlotte play.

"Perhaps you could be a writer," Sherlock said with a smile. "You seem to have the fingers for it."

Charlotte looked up at him with a toothless smile and giggled.

"Maybe you do understand me," Sherlock said, marveling at the fact that it could be so.

Suddenly, Sherlock heard his phone sound.

"Oh for God's sake," he muttered to himself, pulling his phone out from his pocket.

It was a text from Lestrade.

'_You okay, mate?'_

Sherlock knitted his brow at the text message.

'_Of course, Lestrade, everything's fine. ~SH'_

'_You haven't been answering your phone lately…'_

The detective rolled his eyes.

'_Perhaps that is due to the reason that I have been focusing on learning how to properly father my child. I do apologize for not texting you back while I was taking Diaper Changing: 101 with Mrs. Hudson. Also, your texts haven't really been of interest to me. ~SH'_

'_You really are serious about this whole being a parent thing, aren't you?'_

'_Of course, Lestrade, why wouldn't I be? ~SH'_

'_You're just the last person I could have ever imagined raising a child.'_

'_It's been so long that I can't remember: Have you always been this thick? ~SH'_

Sherlock smirked at the thought of the eye-roll that Lestrade was inevitably giving him at that moment.

'_Whatever. Anyways, I was wondering if you are planning on helping us out again soon?'_

Sherlock sighed.

'_On my own? ~SH'_

'_Well, you don't really have anyone else to come with you.'_

Sherlock glared at the text message. His lack of response most likely awakened Lestrade to his poor choice of words.

'_Sorry.'_

Sherlock tightened his lips.

'_Perhaps I'll be back to assist you. Perhaps not. It all depends on whether or not I believe the case you offer me is worth dropping my duties as a father. If that isn't a concrete answer to your _question_, I don't know what else would be. Don't bother texting me again unless you've got a case for me that you think I may find interesting. ~SH' _

Sherlock shoved his phone back in his pocket whilst holding the power button. He was quite done with texting.

He looked back over at Charlotte, and saw that she had laid the dolls aside and was patting Gladstone's fur.

"You like dogs?" Sherlock asked with a smile.

He slid down on to the floor in a crouching position, his hand finding its way to Gladstone's ears.

"I do too," he said. "More than I remember."

As he scratched Gladstone's ears, he suddenly felt something grab his finger. Looking down, he saw a tiny hand wrapped around it.

"My God, you have a death grip," Sherlock said, trying to wriggle his finger out.

Charlotte laughed and released his finger, crawling over to the detective and plopping her self down in front of him.

Sherlock smiled at her and whisked her into his arms, standing up as he did so.

"I think it's time for bed, darling," he said as he kissed the infant's forehead.

He held her close to him as he ascended the stairs to her bedroom, nudging the door open with his foot. Gently, he placed the small girl in her crib across from the empty queen-sized bed. Charlotte grabbed Sherlock's finger again as the detective went to release her.

"It's all right, darling. I won't leave you."

It was almost as if Charlotte understood what her adopted father had said, as she released her grip and let her arm fall down to her side.

Sherlock leaned over to the further side of the room and grabbed the wicker chair that sat there, pulling it over to him so that he could keep Charlotte company in comfort while she fell asleep.

When Charlotte finally nodded off, Sherlock stood up to make his way out of the room. But his eye was drawn to the sleeping child. He leaned over the crib and peered closely at her.

She looked so much like John when she slept.

Sherlock found his lip trembling and quickly covered his mouth in an attempt to stop it. He practically bolted out of the room to the bathroom.

After stumbling down the steps, he finally reached the bathroom, throwing open the door. Immediately following, he forcefully turned the tap on the sink and allowed ice cold water to flow over the palms of his hands like a river. Once his hands were drenched in water, he threw them upon his face, splashing his cheeks and forehead. He did this continuously for about five minutes before turning off the tap. After taking the towel from its dowel, he patted it hastily over his wet face and threw it onto the ground, gripping the edges of the sink and focusing on breathing.

_In… 2… 3… Out… 2… 3_

He looked up from the sink and stared at himself in the mirror.

_You can't go on like this._

Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"Oh God, make it stop!" he inadvertently screamed, his voice reverberating off the walls of the bathroom.

He clutched his stomach and groaned, lurching for the toilet and retching up that morning's breakfast into it.

He heard the quick-paced footsteps of Mrs. Hudson come racing up the stairs to the flat.

"Sherlock, dear, whatever is the matter?" she said, trying to maintain a calm demeanor.

She frowned at the sorry sight before her. Gently, she reached out her hand and rubbed Sherlock's back.

"It's all right, dear. It's all right," she said in a soft whisper. "I've got you."

When it seemed that Sherlock had ceased his vomiting, Mrs. Hudson wrapped her arms around him in a tight hug.

"Why don't I make you a nice cuppa, hm?" she said, tenderly.

Sherlock nodded half-heartedly and allowed the landlady to help him to his feet and guide him to the sitting room. Slowly, Mrs. Hudson lowered the man into his chair and wandered into the kitchen, carefully avoiding the sleeping dog splayed out on the linoleum. Upon entering, she noticed the dried red roses in the trash bin, making her breath hitch in her throat. She figured it best, though, to not bring it up with Sherlock. Instead, she silently made the tea and brought it back into the sitting room, handing Sherlock the cup.

"Two sugars, dear, just the way you like."

Sherlock sniffed as he took the cup.

"I apologize for… that," he said, gesturing to the bathroom. "It shan't happen again, I assure you. I'm fine. Thank you."

Mrs. Hudson frowned.

"Are you fine?"

Sherlock nodded dismissively.

"Yes. Thank you."

"John would hate to see you in such a state."

Sherlock swallowed.

"John's not here."

Mrs. Hudson sighed, trying to think of anything that could better the situation. One thought dawned on her that, she thought, had the potential to help the poor detective move on. But she wasn't sure. Looking at the man before her; his hand trembling as he held his cup of tea, a bit of bile drying at the corner of his lips; she concluded that a shot in the dark was better than nothing.

"Sherlock," she said, after a long bout of silence.

"Mm?"

"I want to take both you and Charlotte somewhere tomorrow. To help you feel better."

Sherlock sighed.

"Dare I ask, where?"

Mrs. Hudson patted him on the shoulder.

"I'd rather not tell you. You might shoot down the idea if I do."

"I suppose that's fine," the detective said with a shrug.

Mrs. Hudson nodded, figuring that that response was the most concise one she was to receive.

"Good. Very good. Now, are you going to finish your tea?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"Alright then," Mrs. Hudson said, picking up the still-hot teacup.

After dumping the contents of the cup into the sink, the landlady, without another word, helped Sherlock up from his chair and into his room, where she cleaned him up, dressed him in pajamas, and laid him down to sleep.

"You get some rest now, alright?" she said, as if she were Sherlock's very own mother.

Sherlock had already closed his eyes before Mrs. Hudson had even begun to speak.

The landlady turned off the light with a sigh and crept out of the room and back down to her flat, wiping stray tears that had involuntarily started rolling down her cheeks.


	17. The Game is On

CHAPTER 17

Sherlock awoke to someone jostling his shoulders.

"Mm? Wha…?" he mumbled, blinking his eyes to clear the haze from his vision.

When his vision cleared as well as his mind, he registered the fact that Mrs. Hudson was rushing about the room, laying out clothes for him.

"What… what are we… _where _are we going?" he finally managed to spit out.

Mrs. Hudson smoothed out his white button down on the edge of the bed.

"Can't tell you. Just get yourself dressed. And quickly."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and yawned sleepily, managing somehow to clamber out of bed and shuffle over to his closet. He heard Mrs. Hudson scurry out of the room like a rat. He wasn't sure what exactly was going on, but he could tell that it was obviously important to the landlady.

After about ten minutes, Sherlock had dressed himself in his standard getup and was walked out into the sitting room. He stopped midstep when he saw Mrs. Hudson sitting in John's chair with Charlotte in her arms. Mrs. Hudson looked up and saw the anger in Sherlock's eyes.

"Oh, dear. So sorry," she said, immediately hopping up from the chair. "I ought to be more careful. Are you ready?"

Sherlock blinked a few times to bring himself back into reality.

"Hm? Oh, yes. I am."

Mrs. Hudson smiled sadly at him.

"Let's get going, then."

Settled into the cab, Sherlock looked out the window at the passing sidewalks and pedestrians, wondering where on earth Mrs. Hudson was taking him. He felt as if he were a dog being blindly led into the woods to be shot. He looked back over at the landlady next to him and raised his eyebrow at her.

"We'll be there shortly," she said.

Sherlock knitted his brow in frustration, trying in his head to figure out where they were headed.

He knew as soon as the cab stopped.

"Mrs. Hudson…"

"We're here," the landlady said, gesturing to Sherlock to move out of the cab.

"Why did you take me here?" Sherlock whispered, his throat feeling tight.

Mrs. Hudson put a hand on his shoulder.

"To let go."

With some gentle prodding, Mrs. Hudson finally managed to get Sherlock out of the cab and onto the sidewalk. Sherlock stood frozen, as if he were glued to the very ground he was standing on.

He desperately wanted to get right back into the cab and speed back home. To get away from this horrid place.

"Come on, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson said, pushing him gently along with one hand while she supported Charlotte's weight with the other.

Sherlock felt the grass of the cemetery hit the bottom of his shoe, and it stung him like a thousand tiny bees. He _hated _this place.

"Please…" he begged the landlady.

Mrs. Hudson just kept nudging him along.

Then, the two stopped in their tracks at the head of a gravestone.

_John H. Watson_

_August 7__th__, 1975 - February 15__th__, 2015_

_Loyal to the very end._

Sherlock was grateful for the lack of a 'R.I.P.' at the bottom. He knew John would never have liked it there.

Mrs. Hudson looked over at him with sad eyes.

"I think you two need to have a talk."

Sherlock stared at the grave.

"I kept the cab waiting. I'll be waiting in there for you. You just take as much time as you need. I've got money," Mrs. Hudson said again before hurrying off.

Sherlock reached out to the stone before him and traced the lettering of the inscription, taking particular interest in John's name.

"The inscription is beautiful," he muttered, pausing on the 'H.'

He chuckled.

"Keeping people guessing, hm?"

He smiled at the memory of his numerous attempts at guessing John's middle name, his chest tightening as he remembered John's voice, exasperated and annoyed answering him with constant, 'No,'s and 'Leave me alone's.

"My God, it feels like an eternity," Sherlock whispered sadly. "John…"

He sighed.

_I talk to skulls, infants, and dogs. Why should this be any different?_

"…I'm sorry that I wasn't here sooner to visit you. Your passing has just made my life extremely difficult lately. I mean, you've left me with an infant child, you've left me with a dog, and you've left me…" he took a deep breath. "…you've left me with the burden of grief. I… I haven't felt this feeling in a long time. You've made me experience so many new emotions that I'm not entirely sure what to do with myself." He began seething. "My life was perfectly fine before you walked into it with your kindness and your jumpers. I was perfectly fine just being the brilliant high-functioning sociopath. But no, you had to waltz into my life and make me care again. You just had to remind me how wonderful and how painful it was to love, to hate, to fear, to grieve… to _feel_!" Sherlock felt his eyes burn. "You reminded me that I'm only human."

Sherlock sniffed and paused to take a deep breath.

"But then, I don't know if that's a good or a bad thing. You gave me a purpose, John. You gave me a reason to keep doing what I was doing. You made me laugh again. You made me smile for the first time in years. You… you gave me something to love. Something to care about. You gave me a heart. Of course, I know Mycroft insists that caring is not an advantage. And sometimes I wonder if he's right. But then I think of you, and I'm convinced otherwise." He kneeled down on the dirt and grass beneath him, folding his hands in his lap.

He looked back up at the grave and sighed a shaky sigh.

"I'm scared, John," he said, his voice cracking. "I really am. Without you here, I honestly don't know what to do. Charlotte needs her father. And I'm a poor excuse for one. I have no idea what I'm doing." He felt something warm and wet roll down his cheek. "You promised me you'd help me. That you'd always be here. You were robbed of your chance to fulfill that promise." He looked up at the sky and blinked away the wetness he felt in his eyes.

"You were taken from me, John," he said, the realization hitting him like a ton of bricks.

He gritted his teeth.

"Someone took away the life we had with one bullet."

He ran a frustrated hand through his raven-black locks.

"Dammit, I will find the bastard who did this and I will _kill _him!" he hissed, staring intently at John's grave, trying to make his plans for vengeance clear to the dead man buried beneath the ground. "I will slaughter the worthless bastard!"

Sherlock shot up from the ground and wiped his nose, straightening his jacket after he did so. Just as he started to walk away, he ran back over to the headstone and placed a kiss on the top. He certainly couldn't leave without a goodbye. John had informed him many times that that was quite rude.

He then turned away from the grave and began walking towards the cab.

"_Can we not do this this time?"_

"_Do what?"_

"_You being all mysterious with your cheekbones and turning your coat collar up so you look cool."_

Sherlock felt another tear roll down his cheek as he forcefully turned up his collar.

The game was on. And this time, Sherlock was going to finish it.

Once and for all.


	18. A Message for You, Sweeties

Hello sweeties! I have been working on this fic for WEEKS and am happy to have finally posted it. And though it has ended on a rather ambiguous note (and for that I'm sorry/not sorry), I promise that there will be a sequel. When I will post it, I have no clue. But it is in the making! I hope you enjoyed Part One of 'Sentiment'. Thanks for reading!


End file.
